


Two for One

by KJAnderson



Series: Vroom Chicka Bow Wow [2]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Bondage, Brainwashing, Consensual Kink, Implied/Referenced Attempted Suicide, Multi, Non-Consensual, Other, Past Brainwashing, Rape, Sex Toys, Sticky, Submission
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:34:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21982261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KJAnderson/pseuds/KJAnderson
Summary: First Aid has a problem, but he is unable to ask for help. He hopes that bringing the attention of Autobot High Command down on his remote base will work.Meanwhile, Bluestreak struggles to adjust to freedom and life among the Autobots.
Relationships: Bluestreak/Mirage, Bluestreak/Optimus Prime, Hound/Mirage (Transformers), Jazz/Hound, Jazz/Mirage
Series: Vroom Chicka Bow Wow [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1312325
Comments: 97
Kudos: 68





	1. A Private Hell

First Aid slept uneasily. 

He was in his quarters. 

The door was locked. 

His comms were turned off, except for the medical emergency line. 

Even with all of those precautions he was restless. First Aid could lock out the rest of the world, but he could not escape _him_. 

:First Aid.: The brisk voice over his comm made First Aid bristle with anger, but the command codes transmitted alongside the voice caused that part of him to be supresseed. 

:Yes Master.: First Aid’s obsequious tone grated on First Aid’s nerves, but only deep down. On the surface he was pleasant and eager, even after having been woken in the middle of his rest cycle. 

:Come.: The voice was curt, and the transmission cut off abruptly. It wasn’t like they needed to waste any manners on him. First Aid could not say no.

First Aid took a quick moment to check his finish on the way out the door. While his master had given up trying to force an active duty medic to be perfectly polished at all times, First Aid would be punished if he showed up looking too unkempt. It was a fine line to walk, and one that First Aid frequently ran afoul of. He burned with shame at the thought of disappointing his master, even while another part of him was indignant. 

It would have to be good enough, First Aid thought. He couldn’t waste any more time. After all, being late would also earn him a punishment.

First Aid slipped out of his quarters and through the halls, his master’s standing order to be discreet ringing in his memory. His master didn’t want any rumors about an illicit affair to get around. 

When he reached his master’s quarters, First Aid gave his code to the door, which quickly opened to let him slip inside. 

Inside the room was a familiar sight. First Aid’s master, being higher-ranked, had a large apartment with separate living and sleeping areas. His master was currently reclined on the couch in the living area, an elegant crystal glass of expensive engex in his hand and an old recording of the Iaconian Primal Orchestra playing something soaring. 

First Aid gingerly crept across the room and knelt down with his head bent submissively, as he had been taught. This close First Aid could smell expensive polish. Despite the mech clearly having just finished cleaning up in the washracks, First Aid could also smell the lingering ozone of overload. 

First Aid’s master ignored the smaller mech, instead stretching lazily as he finished off the last of his engex. He held the glass out to First Aid, who obediently took the offered item and held it carefully. 

First Aid continued to kneel there for what felt like hours, but was probably only a few minutes until his master remembered his presence. 

“Oh, do take that away,” his master said, waving his hand aimlessly in First Aid’s direction. 

First Aid gingerly rose and discreetly turned to walk the long way around the sofa so that he would not pass in front of his master in order to get to the serving nook where the glasses and engex were stored. He had learned that lesson the hard way. It was safer to not be seen. If First Aid was out of sight, he was less of a target for his master’s disappointment. 

In the serving nook First Aid carefully washed the delicate crystal glass. He wasn’t too worried about dropping the glass, medical reflexes were good for more than just performing surgeries. If he made too much noise while cleaning the glass, however, he would be punished. 

He didn’t want to be punished. 

First Aid set the glass away in its special storage container and walked back to kneel at his master’s side again. He ached to leave and go to where he was truly needed, but not even his medical programming would allow him to. At one time First Aid had thought that medical programming was some of the strongest programming out there, highly resistant to viruses and hacking. But now he knew better. His master was stronger. 

First Aid’s master spent another long period of time lost in thought before he even noticed that First Aid was waiting for orders again. The deeply buried part of First Aid found it annoying, but it was a good sign. Tonight’s session had obviously gone very well, and First Aid’s master was drunk on his power, and his powerful overloads. At least, it was good news for First Aid, but not so good news for his master’s favorite. 

First Aid’s master looked annoyed to realize that the subservient mech was still there. He waved his hand again, banishing First Aid with a mumbled order to “clean up the berth.”

With permission granted, First Aid, still careful not to move too fast, stood and gingerly made his way to his master’s berthroom. 

Inside was another familiar sight. 

Ambulon was splayed across the berth, liberally covered with lubricant and other fluids. There was a disconcertingly ecstatic grin on the unconscious mech’s slack face. 

Some days First Aid felt jealous of Ambulon. Not because the other mech was his master’s favorite, but because Ambulon never seemed to remember what happened during these long nights. First Aid knew from experience that tomorrow Ambulon would show up for his shift a bit more tired than usual, but otherwise behaving like nothing had happened. And, as far as First Aid had been able to tell, it was not an act. Meanwhile, First Aid remembered every agonizing moment.

First Aid wasn’t able to tell anybody what was going on. Any time somebody commented about damage to his frame that he had received at his master’s fists, First Aid found himself explaining it away. No matter how hard he tried, he was physically incapable of saying “I am being raped and abused by another mech.” Instead, First Aid suffered in enforced silence.

Deep down First Aid hated himself for resenting Ambulon. 

At least First Aid’s master wasn’t aware that First Aid remembered what was happening to him. As far as his master was concerned, First Aid was as blissfully unaware as Ambulon. It prevented more excruciating sessions with his code laid bare in front of his master. 

Even then, First Aid’s master liked to harp on about how First Aid was only an inferior copy of Ambulon. No matter how hard First Aid tried, and the persona that had been created by his master had tried, he could never be as joyfully submissive as Ambulon. Ambulon would take whatever his master chose to give him, whether a caress or the back of his hand, with eager gratefulness. His master found something lacking in First Aid’s response compared to Ambulon’s, so he gradually called on First Aid to grace his berth less and less.

First Aid was grateful that he was currently spared much of the sexual degradation, while he also mourned that it meant that Ambulon was called on more often to fill in his place. 

First Aid’s master was disappointed in him. First Aid was supposed to have been his master’s masterpiece, but instead he was only good for cleaning up after his master’s sessions with Ambulon, and serving as his master’s whipping boy. 

His master may have given up trying to perfect his creation, but that didn’t mean that his master would let First Aid go free. 

First Aid may be an inferior product, but he was still bound by code-deep loyalty to his master, and there was value in that. As such, First Aid, like Ambulon, was forbidden to socialize outside of work. If they weren’t working, they were supposed to be ready to serve their master. First Aid knew that, if his master thought that he could get away with it, he would have removed both of them from the Autobots altogether. As it was, he blocked any transfer orders so that he could keep his slaves close by.

First Aid set aside his feelings and scanned Ambulon, cataloging the repairs he would have to perform. His master would expect First Aid to have Ambulon in working condition before the other mech’s shift tomorrow morning. 

Before he could see to Ambulon’s wounds however, First Aid would have to move his fellow slave’s bleeding body out of the room and clean the berth so that his master could go to sleep. It was a well-worn routine that First Aid felt like he could perform in his sleep, which he almost had to by now. His master had a voracious appetitie for sex, and with two sex slaves at his disposal, situation had grown gradually worse. It was to the point where First Aid was spending more of his nights patching his fellow slave back together than not. Even when he had time to sleep, he spent it dreading his master’s call. 

Hopefully, the report First Aid had sent in today would bring change. 

When the package from high command had arrived, Pharma, the head medic, had been excited, thinking it was some new equipment for the remote medical base. He’d even insisted on opening the package himself. When it only proved to be some boring scanner, he pawned the project off on First Aid. Pharma wanted prestige, not menial scut-work. 

First Aid hadn’t understood why high command had chosen to send a scanner of all things to a medical outpost. Scanners were not so rare that they were running out of them, even out here. The orders that came with the scanner had been vague. He was supposed to use the scanner to scan every medic and patient that came through the base and notify high command if the scan ever came back positive. That was it. No mention of what they were scanning for or why they were scanning for it.

The next few days had been boring. In between patching up battle damaged mechs and restocking supplies, First Aid would get out the scanner and get a few readings. 

They were always negative. 

Until yesterday. 

First Aid had turned the scanner on Ambulon and the scan came back positive. 

Hope briefly bloomed deep within First Aid, and he had turned the scanner on himself. 

It was negative. 

Just as quickly, First Aid’s hope died into ashes. 

Dutifully, he had reported his findings to Pharma, who had brushed them off impatiently. He had been busy preparing for a difficult surgery, so he ordered First Aid to make the report to high command himself. 

First Aid had. 

He didn’t know what the scanning had been for, but if it brought increased scrutiny to Ambulon, hopefully somebody would realize something was wrong. 

In the meantime, First Aid would spend his off hours patching up his fellow victim and avoiding his master’s displeasure. He couldn’t do anything else. 

***

“You know that doesn’t work on me,” Mirage said, amused, as he pushed his chair back from his desk. 

Bluestreak gazed innocently up at Mirage from underneath the desk as he sensually licked at Mirage’s interface paneling. 

For reasons — kinky reasons — Mirage’s desk didn’t have a front panel. So, when Bluestreak had shown up on a mission to distract his fellow submissive from his work, there was nothing to stop him from crawling underneath and sticking his face in Mirage’s crotch. It had gotten the other mech’s attention very quickly. 

“Naughty,” Mirage said, his tone even and unaffected by Bluestreak’s carnal teasing. “I can’t play with you right now, I have work to do.” In contrast to his gentle voice, Mirage’s hand was firm as he gripped the back of Bluestreak’s helm and pulled the submissive’s tongue off of his panel. Mirage was not upset by Bluestreak’s advances. If he didn’t have a pile of work on his desk to get done, he would have happily played along.

Bluestreak whimpered, squirming in Mirage’s hold, though he wasn’t really trying to get away. “I checked with everybody else. The dominants are all in a big meeting right now, so none of them are available. Hound is probably out on a mission, as is Bumblebee. You’re the only one left that I know.” There were other mechs that were a part of the kinky group of friends that called themselves the ‘Harem’ that were available, but none that Bluestreak had been introduced to as a sexual partner yet. He wasn’t comfortable playing with somebody for the first time without Mirage, or Jazz, there to supervise.

“What about your toys?” Mirage asked. For someone that had only been around for a few weeks, Bluestreak had already amassed quite the collection.

“It’s not the same,” Bluestreak said mournfully. “I need... I need...” Bluestreak’s mouth opened and shut as he struggled to put his thoughts into words. “It doesn’t feel right when it’s just my own hand, my own pleasure. It’s flat and dull. I need to be commanded, to be controlled, to be dominated. The sweetest pleasure is when I’m pleasing my master.” He willed Mirage to understand.

Mirage understood only too well. He remembered the first, terrifying weeks after his own breaking. Mirage had been convinced that the only reason he was kept around was so that he could be fucked. He had felt like he needed to earn his keep, and if he wasn’t being used as somebody’s toy, he was worthless. In order to avoid that, Mirage had ended up agreeing to things that he had been uncomfortable with, even hated. He didn’t want Bluestreak to go through that. Bluestreak needed to know he was wanted, and Mirage could make sure that Bluestreak didn’t push past his limits in the process.

Bluestreak could see Mirage’s resolve faltering, and he grinned. Mirage played the big bad second in command, but he was really a submissive slut just like Bluestreak, eager to please others. 

Bluestreak whined, dramatically rubbing his thighs together. He was so hot it burned. “Whip me, fuck me, use me, please!” he begged prettily. Bluestreak needed to be fucked so badly it hurt. “Can I be your bad little slut? Pleeeeease?” he cajoled sweetly. 

Bluestreak cheered inwardly as he saw Mirage’s resolve crumble. 

Mirage used his grip on the back of Bluestreak’s neck to pull him out from under the desk, then bent him backwards over the top of the desk and pinned him in place with one hand. 

“A few ground rules,” Mirage growled. He may have capitulated to Bluestreak’s pleas, but he wouldn’t let the other submissive call the shots. “You will be a good little bitch. If you aren’t, I will end this.” Mirage did not have the patience to play obedience games right now. Jazz needed him to do his work.

Bluestreak nodded. 

“I am working on sensitive documents, so while you are in this room you will need to be blind and deaf — you may keep your proximity sensors on.”

Bluestreak’s nod was slightly slower. Sensory deprivation was on the edge of what he didn’t like. Mirage, however, he trusted completely.

Mirage pinged Bluestreak’s systems, both as a check and to remind the other mech that the ping system existed. 

Bluestreak’s response was positive. 

“Your collar,” Mirage ordered. 

Bluestreak fumbled slightly as he pulled it out from his subspace and presented it to his fellow submissive awkwardly.

Mirage took his hands off of Bluestreak’s neck in order to fasten the collar around his neck. Once he was satisfied with the fit, Mirage took a large step back. “In front of the desk, face away from me, and present yourself,” he ordered curtly. “Open your valve cover only. You won’t need your spike.”

Bluestreak trembled with eagerness as he straightened up and stumbled around the side of the desk. There he turned and settled down onto his knees, his hands on his thighs and knees spread wide. Bluestreak’s doorwings waved gently in his excitement. 

Bluestreak practically vibrated with eagerness as he listened to Mirage open things and move things and assemble things behind him. His mind ran away from him, conjuring up one erotic possibility after another. (He had a lot more material to work with these days. He’d had more sex, and more indescribably kinky sex, since being captured than he’d had during the rest of his life combined.) Per Mirage’s instructions, however, Bluestreak obediently did not turn around. With Mirage Bluestreak generally got what he wanted through obeying. (Jazz and Prowl usually preferred Bluestreak the brat. He got all the best spankings, and whippings, and the electroprod...)

Bluestreak jumped as Mirage suddenly stepped in front of him and knelt down. He hadn’t been paying attention while his mind wandered through all his memories of erotic delights and...

Bluestreak squealed as Mirage reached down and grabbed his exterior node, pinching it hard. His hands balled up into fists at the pain, but Bluestreak did not move his hands from his thighs or close his legs in protest as Mirage continued the unrelenting pressure. 

Mirage stared steadily into Bluestreak’s eyes. 

Bluestreak stared back with desperation in his eyes.

Mirage released his node. 

Bluestreak didn’t dare say anything, his gaze still focused on Mirage’s stern face. 

“Listening to me now?” Mirage asked. 

Bluestreak watched his friends sinful mouth form the words and nodded. 

Mirage stood up and tugged at Bluestreak’s collar. 

Bluestreak stood. 

Mirage wouldn’t let the other submissive turn around to see what was in store for him. Instead, Mirage forced Bluestreak to shuffle backwards. 

As Bluestreak got closer to the wall, Mirage forced him to open his legs wide. Bluestreak trembled in anticipation as Mirage guided him to step around something resting on the floor between his legs. 

Bluestreak wanted to look, but Mirage caught his chin. “No peeking,” he said sternly, but followed it up with a gentle kiss. 

Bluestreak whimpered softly into Mirage’s mouth, trying to communicate just how aroused he was. 

Mirage pulled back with a mischievous smile. “Now... kneel.” 

Bluestreak kept his eyes helplessly on Mirage’s face as he carefully knelt down on top of whatever was underneath him. 

Bluestreak ended up on his knees with his ass resting elevated on top of a semi-cylindrical object. With no further orders from Mirage, Bluestreak settled his hands on his thighs. 

Mirage knelt down in front of Bluestreak, a wicked smile on his lips as he reached forward and did something with the back of his fellow submissive’s collar. 

The temptation of having Mirage so close was too much. Bluestreak tried to lean forward and capture Mirage’s lips, but found that he couldn’t. He tugged a couple more times, pulling against the short chain Mirage had used to fasten his collar to the wall.

“Please,” Bluestreak begged, but Mirage ignored his pleas. Bluestreak’s thighs tightened around his seat as he rubbed against it. It offered little relief, which is probably why Mirage didn’t order Bluestreak to stop.

Instead, Mirage pulled a pair of cuffs from his subspace. “Hold out your arms.”

Bluestreak did so with eager obedience. 

Mirage slipped a cuff on each wrist, careful not to tighten them too tightly and cut off circulation, but not so loose that they were too easy for Bluestreak to get out of. 

“Hands behind your back,” Mirage ordered gently.

Bluestreak hesitated, he didn’t know why. 

Mirage waited patiently, confident that Bluestreak would obey. Eventually Bluestreak slipped his hands behind his back, weaving his fingers together. 

Mirage leaned forward, pressing his torso against Bluestreak’s as he reached around Bluestreak to fasten his cuffs together. 

Bluestreak took advantage of Mirage’s closeness to push forward against him as much as his lead would allow. He turned his head and kissed the side of Mirage’s neck with passionate desperation. 

Bluestreak let out a plaintive cry as Mirage pulled back. He pulled at his bonds, trying to follow Mirage, only now to realize that his wrists had also been fastened to the wall with a short chain. Bluestreak struggled against his bonds, not to get free, but to become comfortable with their restriction. 

Bluestreak was so distracted by the sensation that it took him a moment to recognize what Mirage was now dangling in front of his face. 

They were clamps for his doorwings. 

“Please, please, please,” Bluestreak said desperately, not even pretending that he wasn’t aroused by the sight of them. He canted his wings forward, towards Mirage, as far as they could go. Bluestreak had many fond memories of those clamps. Even though he knew that Mirage wouldn’t torture him like Prowl or Jazz would, Bluestreak still yearned for the pressure and bite of them. 

Bluestreak yipped as Mirage fastened a clamp to one doorwing, and then the other. Short lengths of chain dangled from the clamps, snapping against Bluestreak’s plating as he moved his doorwings. 

Mirage dodged an inadvertent blow, and used both hands to pin Blustreak’s left doorwing to the wall. “I can’t have you distracting me with these either,” he said teasingly as he fastened Bluestreak’s doorwing to the wall by the chain, followed shortly by Bluestreak’s right doorwing. 

Bluestreak was getting more aroused the more bondage Mirage kept adding. Even better, with each order and each restriction Bluestreak’s mind became calmer and calmer. Now he could focus on what Mirage wanted from him instead of the voices and insecurities in his own head. 

“Mirage, please!” Bluestreak cried, trying to widen his legs and thrust his panel up towards Mirage despite the awkward angle.

Mirage laid a gentle finger against Bluestreak’s lips. “I can’t have you disturbing me with your screaming while I’m working,” he said, looking at Bluestreak’s neck appraisingly. “And you will be screaming,” Mirage promised.

Bluestreak shuddered, obediently lifting his chin so that Mirage could fasten a vocal inhibitor to his neck. Once Mirage was finished, Bluestreak tested it. 

_Please, please, please, please,_ Bluestreak begged. His lips moved as he formed the words, but he was quite thoroughly mute. Not even a moan, whimper, or cry would pass his lips. 

Mirage ran his hands down Bluestreak’s shoulders, rising up on his knees so that he was nearly pressed chest to chest with Bluestreak. 

Bluestreak struggled against his bondage, desperate to close the last few inches, desperate to feel Mirage’s plating on his.

Mirage swayed slightly forward, touching Bluestreak’s lips with a gentle kiss that quickly deepened. 

Bluestreak poured all of his frustration and all of his love for Mirage into his kiss. He was sure that Mirage could feel all of that and more in his field, despite the fact that Bluestreak could not currently verbalize it. 

Mirage slowly, torturously, pulled back.

The chains holding Bluestreak tethered to the wall clashed as Bluestreak threw himself against them, trying to reach Mirage’s lips again. His passionate pleas were silenced on his lips.

“Open up,” Mirage said with heated eyes as he raised his hand to Bluestreak’s chin, making his meaning clear. “Open wide.”

Bluestreak did so, not knowing what Mirage had planned for him, but still very, very turned on.

Unexpectedly, Mirage thrust his fingers into Bluestreak’s mouth, capturing his tongue. 

Bluestreak suppressed his urge to bite down, but he couldn’t suppress the urge to shake his head violently, trying to dislodge Mirage’s grip. 

With a tight grip on his fellow submissive’s chin, Mirage held on through Bluestreak’s short protest. Once Bluestreak calmed down, Mirage released his chin and picked up the next piece of bondage for his unruly submissive.

Bluestreak jerked, startled as a clip snapped shut on his tongue, pinching the sensitive appendage between blunt teeth. As Mirage pulled his hand back, Bluestreak shook his head and felt the light chain fastened to the clip rattle back and forth. The clip did not fall off however. It had magnetic fasteners in order to prevent twitchy submissives from dislodging it so easily, so Bluestreak quickly gave up.

Mirage laughed at Bluestreak’s indignant look. “Guess where this one goes,” he teased as he held up a second clip in front of Bluestreak. Mirage’s other hand drifted down Bluestreak’s chest and abdomen. 

Bluestreak shook his head in denial, but his field rippled in anticipatory pleasure. 

He could feel the cool air on both of his very warm, very moist valves. 

Mirage reached underneath and gripped Bluestreak’s node firmly between his finger and thumb. 

Bluestreak’s shriek was silent. The chain leading from his tongue clamp rattled as he threw himself forwards, allowing himself to try to escape the painful pleasure, but knowing he wouldn't be able to. The realization was freeing. 

Mirage’s clever fingers attached the clamp to his node with a snap. The sharp sting caused Bluestreak to writhe desperately in his bondage. Mirage knelt back to enjoy the view as Bluestreak slowly acclimatized to the new sensations.

As Bluestreak settled back down, he realized something was... different. He flicked his tongue, then jolted as the clamp on his node jerked. 

Bluestreak decided that it was awesome. 

Mirage laughed as Bluestreak started wagging his tongue in various rhythms, testing out what patterns he liked the best. 

Bluestreak ignored Mirage, his focus was on his tongue and his node and the chain between them that was giving him good feelings. 

“Kneel up.” The order was Bluestreak’s only warning before Mirage’s hand thrust between his thighs. 

Bluestreak straightened up on his knees, pulling himself up off of the seat until the chains holding him to the wall would allow him to go no higher. His fun with the clips was momentarily forgotten as Mirage’s wrist brushed over his valve lips.

“Good,” Mirage crooned. “Stay there.” 

Bluestreak tried to grunt as Mirage suddenly plunged two fingers into his posterior valve. 

“Wet and loose and ready for a spike,” Mirage murmured intimately into the side of Bluestreak’s neck as his clever fingers fondled Bluestreak’s posterior valve. When Mirage decided that Bluestreak was sufficiently aroused, Mirage moved to Bluestreak’s anterior valve, giving it the same treatment. 

Mirage pulled back.

“Stay,” Mirage said firmly as Bluestreak started to lower himself. 

Bluestreak waited impatiently as Mirage adjusted something between his thighs. He trusted that whatever his friend was working on would be awesome. 

Like the clips. 

Which Bluestreak just remembered existed. 

Bluestreak started happily stimulating his node again.

Mirage gripped Bluestreak’s hips tightly, bringing his attention back. “Now, gently,” Mirage said, guiding Bluestreak downwards, controlling his decent. 

Bluestreak’s excitement exploded as he felt the broad head of a false spike at the entrance to each of his valves. 

Mirage stopped Bluestreak’s decent. 

Bluestreak’s disappointment was clear in his field, and in his facial expression. 

Mirage grinned. “You’re such a slut for spike,” he said warmly as he quickly checked to make sure that everything was aligned correctly before allowing Bluestreak to continue impaling himself on the dildoes Mirage had mounted to the seat. 

Bluestreak nodded enthusiastically as the well lubricated false spikes slipped into his well lubricated valves. He shuddered at the spasm of stimulation as the ridges and bumps of the false spikes caught and pulled at his inner nodes. 

Bluestreak tried to keen as the false spikes bottomed out in his valve. He was so full. He threw his head back against the wall, reveling in the feeling. 

Mirage’s hands were tight on his thighs, however, preventing Bluestreak from moving. “Look at me,” Mirage said evenly. 

Bluestreak struggled futilly against Mirage’s hold, trying to fuck himself on the false spikes filing his valves, but Mirage prevented him. Bluestreak could only grind against his seat. Even those minute movements caused the false spikes to shift slightly in his valve. 

Bluestreak needed more. He needed to be fucked. 

“Look at me,” Mirage repeated. 

Bluestreak’s head dropped slowly, as if he was in a trance. His gaze was unfocused and hazy as he looked at Mirage. 

Mirage was satisfied. 

Bluestreak felt Mirage’s satisfaction and it settled something within him. He was doing something right. He was wanted. Bluestreak settled down, pinned by Mirage’s will, so he no longer had to be pinned by Mirage’s hands. 

As Bluestreak relaxed, Mirage’s hands moved between Bluestreak’s thighs.

Bluestreak felt a couple of light tugs on his node clip. Unlike before, he didn’t move. He just let the sensation move through him as Mirage worked. 

“Bluestreak?” 

Mirage’s hands were no longer between his legs. 

Mirage was kneeling in front of him now, chest to chest with him. Holding him. One hand cradled Bluestreak’s face while the other curled around his back. 

Bluestreak turned his head into Mirage’s palm. He couldn’t kiss it, the clip was in the way. He nuzzled into Mirage’s hand instead. 

“You’ve been a very good boy,” Mirage said, warm affection clear in his voice. He turned his head so that he could murmur into the side of Bluestreak’s head. “You are wanted. You are loved. Remember that.”

Bluestreak trembled under Mirage’s supporting hands as his field rippled with his roiling emotions. The stress and uncertainty melted away, at least for now, allowing Bluestreak to feel a calm contentment. Bluestreak rested his forehead on Mirage’s shoulder as the other mech embraced his fellow submissive. 

Mirage didn’t need to ask if Bluestreak was feeling better, he could feel it in the other mech’s field as it settled. 

“Do you want me to continue?” Mirage asked gently. He already knew what Bluestreak’s answer would be. Despite Mirage’s spoken reassurances, Bluestreak still craved a physical reminder that he was wanted, even if it was just as a fuck toy. It would take him time to recognize that he had a home here, and a family. In the meantime, Bluestreak still equated sex with being needed, and Mirage could work with that. 

Bluestreak nodded his head eagerly, then stopped, his field spiking as the movement of his head was transmitted down the chain and into his node. Lust that had not dissipated came roaring back as sensitive sensors were manipulated. 

Mirage laughed as he felt the torrent of hunger cascade through Bluestreak’s field. He pulled back, leaving Bluestreak to the mercy of his bondage. “Before you start,” Mirage said, catching Bluestreak’s attention, “you should know a few things.”

Mirage’s fingers caressed Bluestreak’s valve lips, which were distended by the girth of the massive false spikes. “While I finish my work, you will fuck yourself on these spikes for my entertainment.”

That didn’t sound so bad to Bluestreak. He could do that. He was looking forward to that. 

Mirage smiled evilly. “There is an incentive to make sure you perform. I find shocking a toy’s valve as a punishment will liven up a lethargic submissive and keep them performing up to my standards.”

Without warning, the false spikes in Bluestreak’s valves let off a sharp shock. It started with a prickle of static that quickly built until it discharged with a sharp crack that Bluestreak felt more than heard. 

Bluestreak sagged in his bonds, his frame sagging as he recovered from the mind-blowing overload caused by the shocks.

“However,” Mirage continued, “that wouldn’t work for you.” Bluestreak’s reaction had been just what Mirage had been expecting. “You little pain slut,” Mirage said lovingly. “For you, this is your reward. The harder you fuck yourself on these spikes, the longer the lead up and the sharper the shock. Stop, and so does the pleasure.” 

“Go ahead, then. Give it a try,” Mirage encouraged Bluestreak. 

The chains holding Bluestreak to the wall limited his movement as he slowly lifted himself up and started fucking himself on the spikes, gradually getting faster and harder as he figured out how much leeway he had available. 

Mirage watched closely as Bluestreak made a couple of very strong thrusts before pulling back too far and running into the last bit of bondage that Mirage had added. 

Bluestreak tried to yelp as his node was suddenly, violently pulled downward as he tried to lift himself even further off of the spikes. He flinched and dropped down, throwing his head back against the wall as both spikes bottomed out mercilessly. Bluestreak’s sight whited out as he overloaded. 

Once Bluestreak came back to himself he gave Mirage an incredulous look. 

Mirage just looked smug. “Can’t have you slipping off of the spikes, can we?” he said innocently. 

Bluestreak glared at Mirage, but the effect was ruined somewhat as he started to grind himself against the seat, warming up for the next round. 

Mirage gripped Bluestreak’s neck, stilling the other mech. 

Bluestreak noticed what Mirage was holding. It looked like an oversized visor that could cover his eyes and the sides of his head. Bluestreak knew what it would do.

“It’s time,” Mirage said seriously as he held the disrupter.

Bluestreak nodded apprehensively. 

Mirage slowly and carefully fastened the device to Bluestreak’s head. 

Mirage activated it.

Bluestreak couldn’t hear. 

He couldn’t see. 

But...

He could feel Mirage’s hands on his shoulders, grounding him. 

He could feel the spikes in his valves, piercing him through. 

He could feel his collar, chained to the wall behind him, just like his doorwings and his bound hands were. 

He could feel his node, attached to the seat he was sitting on. 

If Mirage said something, Bluestreak couldn’t hear it. However, Mirage’s ping was unobstructed, as was Bluestreak’s reply. 

Bluestreak still had access to his positioning sensors. He could tell that Mirage was in front of him. That Mirage’s desk was to the side. 

Instead of trying to reassure Mirage with his soundless voice, Bluestreak instead resumed grinding himself on the spikes that filled his valves. His lust built quickly, until he was thrusting himself onto the spikes vigorously. The first static sparks filled his valve, a promise of the shocking overload to come. 

Bluestreak worked hard on his overloads, never noticing as Mirage sat back down at his desk and pulled out his paperwork. He never knew how many times Mirage looked over to check on him. 

Bluestreak’s world narrowed down to the chains that bound him, the spikes that filled his valve, and the screaming orgasms the sharp electric shocks forced out of him, and he was content.


	2. A Painful History

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIVE!
> 
> Here's 7,000 words of smut to celebrate.
> 
> Sheltering in place. Stay safe.

Ratchet looked over at Jazz as the recorded report from base 7-Alpha ended. 

Jazz’s face was full of predatory hunger as he slowly turned to face the CMO. 

When the specialized scanners had been created, the decision had been made to have them sent out to medical stations, because, due to the ebb and flow of war, a lot of mechs passed through a medical station sooner or later. This meant that the reports went to the Chief Medical Officer’s office. It was less suspicious than having medics contact Special Operations, like Jazz had initially wanted. 

This meant that Ratchet was in the unenviable position of being constantly hounded by Jazz. A harried Mirage was only able to distract his master with blowjobs so many times before Jazz stopped playing along. 

Now that a report had finally come in, Jazz was eager to pounce. Quite literally.

“Jazz,” Optimus Prime’s chiding voice pulled his third-in-command back to himself. 

Jazz slowly slid backwards off of the conference room table and sat back down in his seat, no longer looming over the CMO. 

“Base 7-Alpha is on the plains west of Iacon,” Prowl reported, not looking up from his datapad. “The mech in the recording is First Aid, a junior medic. The mech identified in First Aid’s report is Ambulon, another medic on staff.” Prowl flicked the surface of his pad with a stylus, moving through the information quickly. 

“Ambulon is a Decepticon defector,” Ratchet spoke up, consulting his own datapad. “He was also identified on Mirage’s list of potential victims.”

Prowl looked over at Ratchet. “Given that, I will reexamine Mirage’s list and prioritize scans,” he confirmed. As much as they wanted to, they didn’t have the resources to take care of too many traumatized mechs at once.

“Jazz,” Optimus said, turning towards his third-in-command. “How quickly can something be done?” 

“I can take a team over there and—” Ironhide was quick to interject before Jazz cut him off with a wave of his hand. 

“As much as I’d like to say ‘immediately’ we need to make sure that we don’t tip the hand of whoever is behind this.” Jazz glared at Ironhide. “We can’t just run in there guns blazing without knowing the situation on the ground. I need to send in an operative or two first.”

“There is only one operative available at this time,” Prowl said impassively. “Mirage.”

The mechs in the room turned to face Jazz. 

Unfortunately, Jazz couldn’t see any better options. He clenched his hands into fists. “My other investigators are busy elsewhere,” he confirmed unhappily. They were on sensitive long-term assignments. He couldn’t just reassign them at a whim. After all, there was still a war going on, and the Autobots needed them where they were. “He can do the job...” Jazz hesitated. He didn’t doubt Mirage’s ability to perform the mission. But...

“Mirage has extensive experience with missions like this,” Prowl pointed out factually. “There is no reason to think that he would be unable to carry it out.” 

“As long as he can’t be compromised,” Ironhide said, hitting on the source of Jazz’s discomfort. 

Jazz made an unhappy sound. “Mirage is one of my best, but this isn’t infiltrating Darkmount,” he said. At any other time the comment would have sounded ridiculous. Darkmount was the most heavily-fortified Decepticon fortress. Alpha-7 was an Autobot base. It should be a walk in the crystal gardens. But... “Ironhide has a point,” Jazz conceded. 

Jazz turned towards Ratchet. “What is the likelihood that, if captured by the mech who did this to him, that Mirage could be reinfected?” he asked seriously.

Everybody’s attention turned towards Ratchet as the medic was put on the spot. 

“I can’t give a definitive answer either way,” Ratchet admitted. “At first we thought Mirage was a one-off, and the risk he would run into the mech who enslaved him was low. Now...” Ratchet shrugged. “I could run scenarios using Mirage’s current code, including his SpecOps protective protocols, against what we have of the modified slave code and see how it reacts. However, I don’t have a copy of the original virus used to modify Mirage’s and Bluestreak’s code in the first place, so whatever scenarios I run will be flawed.”

“So?” Jazz pushed. 

“It is possible that Mirage could be reinfected,” Ratchet conceded. 

“Mirage is mine,” Jazz snarled in response, his hands tightening on the arm of his chair, ready to spring up. He normally wasn’t this unprofessional during staff meetings, but this meeting wasn’t about the Autobots, it was about his submissives. It skirted the edge of professional and personal. 

“Mirage is his own mech,” Optimus Prime replied sternly. 

Jazz pulled himself back and nodded stiffly. He trusted Mirage’s skill, but this wasn’t a normal mission. “I’m not going to put him in a position where he ends up back with those...” his extensive vocabulary of vulgarity failed him. 

Optimus Prime nodded understandingly. “I agree, however, let’s ask Mirage and see what he has to say.” He held up his hand as Jazz opened his mouth to protest. “Trust Mirage. After all, it wasn’t that long ago that he was running circles around you.” 

Jazz sat back, chastised. “I’ll summon him,” he said sulkily. 

***

“What?!” 

Jazz spun his chair around at Ratchet’s exclamation and gaped as Mirage marched into the conference room, several minutes later than expected, the body of an obviously fuck-drunk Bluestreak slung over his shoulder. 

“You didn’t wait for me to explain,” Mirage said, uncharacteristically cross, as he crossed the conference room. 

Mirage stalked up to Optimus Prime, who reached forward to help lift Bluestreak’s limp form into his lap. 

Optimus gave Bluestreak a worried look. The submissive was overheated, condensation beading on his armor and pooling in his seams. The reason was obvious however, as the smaller mech reeked of lubricant and multiple overloads. 

Bluestreak’s lubricant-moistened thighs slid slickly across Optimus’ lap as the large mech cradled the smaller mech between his arm and chest. Optimus was reassured as he felt Bluestreak stir slightly and nuzzle up against his chest plate. 

Mirage reached forward and gripped Optimus’ chin, forcing the larger mech to look at him. 

Optimus was startled by such a forward, almost rude gesture from the usually proper mech. 

“He needs to feel wanted,” Mirage explained. 

The enigmatic instruction didn’t explain much, but it did encourage Optimus to wrap Bluestreak in his welcoming field. It seemed hardly possible, but Bluestreak relaxed even further into Optimus’ embrace.

Mirage lowered his hand to give Bluestreak one last gentle stroke on the uncovered portion of his head, which Optimus was just realizing was covered with a sensory disruptor. Bluestreak couldn’t see or hear anything that was happening. 

“But...” Jazz stuttered in response to Mirage. 

Mirage whipped around, one arm raised, pointing accusingly at Jazz. 

Jazz shrank back in the face of Mirage’s uncharacteristic ferocity. 

Ironhide settled back to watch the fray while Ratchet performed a quick scan on Bluestreak. Ratchet didn’t find anything worse than some exhaustion, most likely from the prolonged, vigorous sexual activity the submissive had obviously been partaking in. 

Jazz was confused. He didn’t know what he had done wrong, but based on Mirage’s expression, he was going to find out soon. 

Mirage deflated slightly in the face of Jazz’s bewildered expression. He knew Jazz well enough to know it was not an act. Jazz really wasn’t aware of what was going on. 

Mirage looked away. “Remember the washracks about two months after...” he waved his hands expressively. Mirage didn’t know why this time was different, but he couldn’t say it. It had been a dark time.

Jazz froze. Then the realization hit him with an almost physical impact. He suddenly sat forward, deadly serious. “Did he...?” 

The other mechs in the room silently watched the byplay between the two. Ratchet was unnerved, however. He had a sneaking suspicion that he knew which incident Mirage was referring to. After all, it had put Mirage in the medbay. Even though neither mech had talked about what happened, Ratchet had recognized the signs easily enough. 

Mirage shook his head, and Jazz looked relieved. 

Mirage pulled out a spare chair and sat. “Sorry to hijack this meeting, but this is something you all need to know. Especially if, as I assume, I’m going to be sent on a mission away from base,” he said to the room. 

Ironhide looked ready to protest, but a quick jab of Ratchet’s elbow cut off whatever the mech was going to say before he said it. 

Optimus Prime nodded regally. “I know you wouldn’t do this if it wasn’t important.” 

Mirage looked up and to the side at Jazz. “I know you wanted to keep this between us, but with Bluestreak...”

Jazz sat back and opened his arms wide. “Hug?” he offered, leaving the choice open to Mirage. 

Mirage wanted very much to slink out of his chair and climb into his master’s lap. Instead, he shook his head. “Not now,” he replied quietly, hugging himself tight. Mirage’s anger had deflated to the point where he just felt empty, but still emotionally conflicted. 

Optimus ran a soothing hand down Bluestreak’s back. The action helped steady himself as well as the submissive in his arms. Mirage had been wise to give Bluestreak to Optimus, as the larger mech could faintly feel Mirage’s chaotic emotional field as the smaller mech loosened his tight hold on it. Optimus had the control necessary to be able to prevent Bluestreak from picking up on Mirage’s state of mind. 

“First.” Mirage visibly steeled himself for what he had to say. “Bluestreak can’t hear this. He’ll probably realize it later, but he’s not in the right headspace to learn it now.”

“Which is why you have him in sensory deprivation,” Jazz observed. Just like Optimus, he had recognized the device covering Bluestreak’s head. 

“Part of the reason,” Mirage replied, looking up with the faint shadow of an impish smirk on his face. “He came into my office needing to play. I needed to get work done. We compromised.” 

Mirage slowly turned towards the other senior officers, his dominants, in the room. “I don’t know how much Jazz told you about the process I went through after he broke the programming...” It was a question.

Optimus Prime shook his head solemnly. “Jazz shared with us his impression of what you were going through. However, having your feedback would be best.” 

Mirage, normally confident and self-assured Mirage, looked away and down, as if he couldn’t look at them and speak at the same time. “In the beginning, I was lost. The shattered pieces of who I had been rattled around in my head. Not to mention the leftover programming. Leftover impulses.”

Ratchet’s gaze snapped to Jazz. 

Jazz nodded shallowly in confirmation. 

Ratchet clearly wanted to say something, but held his peace as Mirage continued to speak.

“I didn’t know who I was,” Mirage said, missing the byplay between the other mechs in the room. “The only constant I had was my master. But I was also a Decepticon prisoner, and my master was an Autobot. I felt like I needed to earn my place. I was desperate, and I only had one thing to trade.” 

In this moment, Mirage was no longer the coolly confident Autobot spy, Jazz’s strong right hand. Instead he was a vulnerable, broken mech, not unlike the one that had come out of the Special Operations’ interrogation chambers so long ago. 

Jazz hurt to see the confirmation of what he had suspected all along, that Mirage’s recovery wasn’t as complete as the mech let them think. From what he could tell, the others were just realizing the same. 

“My emotions were all over the place. Jazz would pay attention to me, and I’d be happy. Then he’d leave and I’d fall into a depression. It didn’t matter if he hit me or fucked me, I craved the attention — any attention — because it meant that I was still wanted.” 

Ironhide made an outraged noise, and Mirage looked up, pinning the mech with a harsh look. “It’s past. We got through it, and everything’s good now,” Mirage insisted, his voice strong and insistent in his defense of his master. “It’s just... I’m recognizing some of the same behavior patterns in Bluestreak. He’s not as bad as I was. He is less fixated on Jazz and is more willing to approach others.” Primarily Prowl and himself, but that still counted. 

“How can we help Bluestreak?” Optimus Prime said quietly, carefully modulating his reactions so that his field didn’t upset the blissful mech cradled in his arms. 

Mirage turned to face Optimus and leaned forward. “Tell him he’s wanted. Tell him he’s needed, and not just for sex,” he said earnestly. “I’m not saying stop having sex with him. That would be the wrong thing to do. But keep in mind that he might go beyond his comfort zone in an effort to please you.”

Mirage’s words may have danced around the subject, but they still confirmed the other mechs’ worst fears. Ironhide and, to a lesser extent, Ratchet, shot glares at Jazz, who pretended to ignore them. 

“That’s why you’ve been so insistent on being present every time I’ve played with Bluestreak,” Prowl commented, putting his pad down on the table in front of him.

Mirage nodded. “I hoped I would be able to spot the warning signs quick enough to prevent... stuff from happening. But, if I’m going to be sent on assignments off base, you need to know so you can keep your own watch.”

Mirage turned to Optimus Prime. “So, fuck him, adore him, and reinforce to him that he’s his own mech. It will take time before he really, truly believes, but he will eventually.” 

“Do you believe?” Jazz asked quietly. 

Mirage hesitated. “Most days,” he admitted, not looking at his master. 

Ratchet stirred. He had many questions. “You’re leaving something out.” Mirage still hadn’t talked about the situation he had obliquely referred to during his initial conversation with Jazz.

Mirage closed his eyes helplessly. “I know.” 

“What—” Optimus started to say before he was interrupted by Jazz. 

“Mirage tried to commit suicide,” Jazz announced bluntly. “I said something stupid, and I didn’t realize that Mirage would literally do anything I told him to.” The statement was horrifying in its implications. 

Ironhide stirred, his field having gone flat and hard. “How do we know that you’re not still manipulating him?” he challenged Jazz. 

“He’s not,” Mirage said fiercely, rising to his feet and raising his voice in defense of his master. “Jazz has given me back the freedom to say ‘no.’ The freedom to argue, to disagree, and to make my own decisions.” Mirage’s voice was choked with emotion. “He has given me back my freedom to choose. And I chose to stay. With him. And with all of you.”

Mirage pinned Ironhide with a dark look of warning. “I am happy. And I’m trying to make sure that Bluestreak can go through the same transition with less trauma.”

Ironhide opened his mouth to say more.

“Enough,” Optimus Prime said forcefully, drawing everybody’s attention away from Mirage. “I appreciate your honesty, Mirage,” he said in a kinder voice. 

Mirage nodded graciously and sat back down in his chair. 

Bluestreak huddled close to Optimus. He may be unable to hear anything that was going on in the room, but the roiling press of upset fields was distressing the submissive. 

Bluestreak’s uncomfortable shifting caught Optimus’ attention. Optimus reined his field in, carefully modulating it with a politician’s finesse. 

The other mechs in the room watched soundlessly, not willing to antagonize Mirage by further distressing Bluestreak.

Bluestreak gradually settled under Optimus’ gentle attention. 

“As enlightening as that was, that was not why we called you here,” Optimus Prime said, getting the conversation back on track. Mirage’s admission had been upsetting, and they would be dealing with the fallout for a while. In the meantime, however, they had another victim to help. 

Mirage hummed thoughtfully, and sat back down in his chair. “You called me here about the situation at base 7-Alpha,” he stated. 

“How—” Ratchet started to say, then cut himself off at Mirage’s mischievous glance. “SpecOps,” he said instead. 

“I can leave immediately,” Mirage stated. He turned towards Jazz. “Depending on how complicated we want to make the cover story. I’m assuming you want to keep the investigation low-key so as not to start rumours?” 

Ironhide snorted. “Rumours aren’t our only concern—” he started to say, only to be cut off by the smack of Ratchet’s hand to the back of his head. 

Jazz took advantage of Ironhide’s involuntary pause to explain. “They’re worried that you could be reinfected,” he said bluntly. “For the record, I don’t think you’d fall for the programming again, but I can’t ignore the possibility.” Jazz was Mirage’s master, yes, but he was also the third-in-command of the Autobots and the head of Autobot Special Operations. He had to keep the larger picture in mind when making command decisions.

Mirage paused, running through the options in his head. 

“If we wait a day, Hound could be recalled. He can partner me,” Mirage proposed. Normally Hound would not be considered for this type of mission. The tracker was more skilled in hunting mechs than investigating them. However, Hound’s tracking ability was one of the reasons that Mirage was proposing Hound as a partner. “If I was compromised to the point that I would consider a new master,” which it was clear Mirage did not think was likely to happen, “he is dominant enough to step in and bring me back to you.”

“And if that doesn’t work, he will be able to track you down and bring you back in chains if needed,” Jazz said tightly, following Mirage’s line of thinking. Hound was the only mech they knew of who was able to sense Mirage when the spy was invisible. 

Optimus looked to Jazz to make the call. 

Mirage stood up, pushing his chair back. He knelt down facing his master, knees spread and hands resting lightly on his thighs. His head was held high, but his gaze was lowered to the ground in front of him. 

“You don’t need to do this.” Jazz’s protest was without strength. 

Mirage spoke, his voice strong and clear so that the others at the table could hear. “You have taught me that I am your equal, and I don’t want that to change. But in this case my submissiveness to you is an asset. I obey you. If I am compromised, I want your hand to be the one I return to over any other master. And if the programming turns out to be irreversible, I want your feet to be where I spend the rest of my functioning.” Mirage looked up into Jazz’s eyes with a final plea. “Don’t take this away from me.”

The other mechs in the room were silent, absorbing what Mirage had said. 

Jazz didn’t need to debate over his decision. “Mine!” he said fiercely. 

Mirage threw himself forward into his master’s lap, and Jazz’s arms came down to hold him. Mirage could feel something deep within him settle into place. A deep satisfaction filled him. Whether from his coding, or from his spark, Mirage did not know. He only knew that it felt right. 

Jazz ran his hands across Mirage’s helm soothingly. “You and Hound will both go,” he conceded. 

Optimus Prime stirred

“You have much to prepare for,” Optimus said solemnly, still cradling Bluestreak in his arms. “I will take care of Bluestreak while the both of you are occupied with your preparations.” 

Mirage turned to look at Optimus. 

Optimus smiled gently at Mirage’s worried look. “I will keep what you have said in mind,” he reassured Mirage. 

Mirage nodded. If there was one thing that Optimus was very, very good at, it was looking after the emotional needs of his submissives. “Before you cuddle, he would likely prefer a vigorous fucking,” Mirage said with a sly smile. “I’m afraid I’ve been teasing him quite mercilessly.”

Optimus gave a low, knowing laugh. “In that case, does anybody else want to help me?” he addressed the room.

Mirage’s attention was drawn away from the other mechs in the room and back to his master by Jazz’s hand on his shoulder. 

“Collar,” Jazz demanded. There was a wildly possessive look in his eyes that thrilled Mirage. 

Mirage swiftly retrieved his collar from his subspace, presenting it to his master. 

Jazz quickly fastened it around Mirage’s neck and snapped on a leash that he took out of his subspace. With a swift tug, Mirage rose and followed his master out the door, leaving his fellow submissive to the mercy of the room full of dominant mechs. He knew that he could trust Optimus to do what was necessary. 

***

Optimus felt the wash of Ratchet’s medical scans prickle across his plating. He turned to face his old friend. 

Ratchet returned Optimus’ questioning look with a reassuring, and somewhat lecherous, grin. 

Bluestreak curled up closer into Optimus’ warmth.

“He’s doing just fine,” Ratchet reassured Optimus. He proceeded to pull out a series of sealed energon and coolant containers from his subspace, lining them up on the table. “He’s tired, but also very turned on. Though, I would recommend topping up his fluid levels before you fuck him through the table.” 

The next few things Ratchet placed on the table were decidedly not innocent. 

Optimus opened his mouth as if to protest as Ratchet finished laying out a small selection of sex toys. 

Prowl and Ironhide slipped out of the room, ignoring the drama unfolding.

“Just a bit to spice things up,” Ratchet said faux-innocently, before Optimus could say anything. 

Optimus Prime shook his head bemusedly. “Thank you, but my collection is extensive enough already.”

“Medic’s orders,” Ratchet said sweetly. Then, more seriously he said, “you need to relax. Fuck the submissive and cuddle him through the aftercare, or I’ll use a tranquilizer on your ass.” 

Too late, Optimus realized that Ratchet had smoothly maneuvered himself between Optimus and the doorway. Optimus, hampered by Bluestreak’s warm body and comfortable field, was not able to stand before the door closed with a beep that signified the lock engaging. 

Optimus pinged the lock, confirming what he had suspected. Ratchet had locked Optimus and Bluestreak in using his chief medical officer’s codes. Optimus could override them. But, if he did, Ratchet would give him grief. 

Besides, Optimus had a warm, cuddly, aroused little submissive in his lap. Without the distraction of the highly-charged conversation, Optimus’ interface systems started to take notice and respond to the simmering arousal in Bluestreak’s field.

Optimus gave in with a shrug, leaning back in his chair. He meshed his field with Bluestreak’s, checking on the submissive’s state of mind after the jostling he had received during Optimus’ aborted escape attempt. 

Bluestreak was calm, almost serene, and very, very horny. 

Optimus turned Bluestreak to face him, legs splayed wide across Optimus’ thick thighs. He gripped Bluestreak’s pelvis, pulling the smaller mech closer. Ample lubricant smeared across both red and silver thighs, making the two mechs slide smoothly over each other’s plating.

Bluestreak might have tried to make a noise, but Optimus couldn’t tell with the vocal inhibitor still in place. The submissive shuddered with pleasure, falling forward against Optimus’ broad chest. 

Optimus shifted as he felt Bluestreak’s lips, then teeth, find the top edge of his chest armor. Pleasure flared as Bluestreak licked, nuzzled, and nibbled what he could reach. 

Optimus ran his hands down Bluestreak’s arms, telegraphing his movements as he embraced the blind mech. His hands settled on Bluestreak’s hands, cuffed behind his back. 

Before Optimus could ping, Bluestreak nodded, anticipating Optimus’ next move. 

Optimus unclipped Bluestreak’s cuffs, but he did not remove them. He knew that the submissive would enjoy their presence, and they could still come in handy. 

Massaging Bluestreak’s arms gently, but firmly, Optimus carefully helped Bluestreak move them from behind his back. From the amount of tense and knotted cables Optimus found, Bluestreak must have been left like that for quite some time. Not that Bluestreak had complained. 

Bluestreak shuddered under Optimus’ gentle caresses, a sensual pleasure winding through his field. There was a simple but profound pleasure in just being touched. 

As Bluestreak relaxed, Optimus moved his hands upwards, up over the collar encircling Bluestreak’s neck to settle on top of the dampener covering Bluestreak’s helm. Optimus peered deep into Bluestreak’s sightless eyes, his thumbs running over them. 

It was not hard for the blind submissive to tell what Optimus had planned. Bluestreak turned his head, kissing Optimus’ right palm and daintily licking up towards the base of his fingers. 

Bluestreak could feel the rumble and shift of Optimus’ frame as the larger mech laughed. He startled slightly as Optimus tapped his wandering lips with a finger in a light rebuke, but his frown was quickly turned into a smile as Optimus turned his head so that Optimus could remove the sensory dampener. 

Optimus took his time. Instead of turning off and removing the dampener without hesitation, which could cause the formerly sensory-deprived mech to be overwhelmed by the sudden reintroduction of stimulation, Optimus slowly dialed down the force of the dampener. 

Slowly, Bluestreak went from hearing nothing to being able to hear everything in the room. The sound of his own systems, much less those of the mech holding him, were nearly overwhelming after the long quiet. However, the sounds also confirmed for Bluestreak what his proximity sensors had been telling him. Optimus Prime and he were the only mechs in whatever room they were currently in. He could hear no one else. 

Where exactly on base they were, Bluestreak didn’t know. He had trusted Mirage when the other mech had slung him over his shoulder and walked out of his office. In fact, the idea of not knowing had given Bluestreak thrill, which he had carefully logged so that he could discuss it with his master and his fellow submissive later. It had given him ideas. 

Soon, Bluestreak was distracted from his wandering thoughts by the slow reintroduction of his vision. Light slowly dawned, growing gradually brighter until he could discern the difference between light and dark. Then, color seeped across his vision as his optical systems rebooted and refocused on the world around him.

Optimus’ smiling face was the first thing that Bluestreak saw. The dominant’s smile widened as he noticed Bluestreak focusing on him. 

“Is that better?” Optimus asked in his low, rumbling voice. 

Bluestreak opened his mouth to reply, only to realize that the vocal inhibitor was still in place. He pouted prettily at Optimus as the larger mech chuckled. 

“Should I take that as a yes?” Optimus said gently, humor lurking in his voice. 

Bluestreak nodded. He pushed his neck into Optimus’ hands as Optimus moved to deactivate the vocal inhibitor. Unlike the dampener, Optimus did not have to worry about overwhelming Bluestreak with sudden input, so he simply turned it off, carefully dislodging the device and setting it aside on the table. 

“Finally!” Bluestreak exclaimed. He threw his arms around Optimus’ chest, hugging the larger mech. The fact that his move brought his warm, lubricant-streaked panel up against Optimus’ equally-warm panel was a welcome bonus. 

Bluestreak squirmed, grinding against Optimus’ annoyingly closed panel. He pinged his acceptance, thinking that it would help the gentle dominant move along faster. Bluestreak had been teased enough. The false spikes had been fun, but he wanted the real thing.

Optimus’ hands came down to bracket Bluestreak’s hips, and the smaller mech slid his panel open in anticipation. 

Instead of taking Bluestreak’s unspoken offer, Optimus held his hips still, putting space between them. 

Bluestreak froze as something occurred to him. “You don’t want to?” he asked worriedly, looking up at Optimus’ face. The last thing he wanted to do was push Optimus into something he didn’t want to do. Though, he didn’t understand how Mirage would have left him with Optimus if that had been the case. Mirage knew that Bluestreak wanted to get fucked. Unless Mirage hadn’t known...

“It’s not that,” Optimus reassured Bluestreak as the other mech’s worry threaded through his field. “I don’t want you to feel obliged to cater to my needs.”

“What did Mirage say?” Bluestreak demanded flatly, losing his teasing demeanor. 

“He is worried about you,” Optimus replied evenly. 

“What. Did. He. Say?” Bluestreak demanded, leaning forward. The fuckable little submissive was gone, replaced by a seasoned warrior who wasn’t going to take any evasive bullshit. 

The idea that Bluestreak would threaten Optimus Prime would normally be laughable, but Optimus was not laughing. “He is worried that you feel that your only worth is as a companion for the rest of us,” Optimus Prime said delicately. 

Bluestreak knew that Optimus was using ‘companion’ as a discreet term for ‘fuck toy.’ Or something equally as vulgar. 

The look on Bluestreak’s face was thunderous. 

Mirage’s opinion was not news to Bluestreak. The other submissive had been talking around the subject almost since the day Bluestreak had been broken. Bluestreak understood that Mirage had his own hang-ups, but when those started getting in the way of Bluestreak’s nookie, things were going too far. 

“I need to talk to Mirage,” he declared, trying to slip off of Optimus’ lap. 

Optimus stopped him however. 

“Mirage is preparing for a mission,” Optimus explained hurriedly as Bluestreak glared at him, “and can’t be disturbed.”

The smaller mech did not look satisfied with the explanation. 

“We’ve had a report that there is another like you. Mirage is being sent to investigate.” 

Technically, Optimus probably shouldn’t have told Bluestreak that. Bluestreak was still on probation as he adjusted to being Autobot. After all, it wasn't that long ago that Bluestreak had been Barricade. 

However, Optimus was very sure that Bluestreak would not do anything that he thought could harm Mirage, and interfering with Mirage’s mission could do that. Jazz might try to scold Optimus when he found out, but Optimus, as the head of the Autobots, did have the authority to share classified information as he saw fit. 

Bluestreak settled back across Optimus’ thighs. “When he gets back then,” he conceded unhappily. He’d have to deal with the fallout of whatever Mirage had told the others until then. 

“What did he tell you anyway?” Bluestreak asked, annoyed. 

“He was worried that you feel like you need to submit to our sexual desires as payment for being allowed to stay,” Optimus summed up, leaving out some of the more personally painful revelations. It was up to Mirage if he wanted to disclose those. “For the record, you don’t need to. Even if you weren’t having sex with any of us, you would still be welcome.” 

Bluestreak flailed around for something to say. Mirage wasn’t there for him to interrogate, and Optimus Prime was just so fucking earnest. “I... He... Graaaahhhh!” he said, frustration, both sexual and not, overflowing.

“Maybe if you got a hobby Mirage wouldn’t be so worried,” Optimus proposed in honest sincerity. 

Bluestreak just looked at Optimus incredulously. Slowly, a grin stretched his face. It wasn’t a nice grin. It had too many teeth. 

Optimus was reminded that Bluestreak still retained his sharpened canines from his time as a Decepticon. 

Optimus twitched as slim claws delved between the seams of the armor covering his hip joint. Sensitive nerve bundles and energon supply lines were wrapped around delicately strong fingers. 

Optimus was suddenly reminded that Barricade had been a Decepticon frontline warrior, and a formidable one at that. 

Bluestreak leaned close, and Optimus could swear he saw a glint of red in Bluestreak’s bright blue eyes. “If my hobby is fucking my way through half of the Autobot army, that is nobody’s business except mine,” he growled dangerously. 

Optimus needed to take control back, and, being a seasoned dominant, he saw his opportunity. 

Ignoring the sharp claws resting near sensitive components, Optimus’ arms moved, embracing Bluestreak tightly and trapping his hands between his own thighs. Optimus leaned down, bringing his mouth close to the side of Bluestreak’s head. 

“You would like that, wouldn’t you?” Optimus murmured, dropping his voice down into a register that he was told would vibrate a mech’s very struts. “You’d like it even better if we stripped you down and tied you across a bench in the center of the parade grounds. It would be in public, so any mech walking by could see your glistening valves and lubricant-stained thighs. The only choice you would have is if you will be whipped before or after you’re fucked? 

“Or possibly...” Optimus made a dramatic pause. The clever, deadly fingers wrapped in his hip components had gone slack. 

“During.” Optimus dropped the word into Bluestreak’s hearing like aphrodisiac-laced energon treat. 

“Every moment that you fail to attract a new spike to fill up your needy little valve, your body will pay the price.” Optimus raised his hand to trace one finger down Bluestreak’s back, sensitizing the plating and calling up memories of past floggings to the forefront of Bluestreak’s mind. 

Bluestreak’s field had gone warm and hazy as the fantasy filled his thoughts, and a soft, high-pitched keen emerged from his throat. He never knew that Optimus was capable of spinning such a suggestively sexy scenario with his voice alone. If Bluestreak didn’t know better, he’d swear that the large mech had been replaced by Jazz. 

Optimus smiled, burying his face in Bluestreak’s neck. “But we both know it wouldn’t be much of a punishment. Not for you.”

Bluestreak shook his head numbly as his fingers withdrew from their dangerous hold. His hands trembled as he wrapped his arms around Optimus’ waist. 

“Hands behind your back,” Optimus murmured. 

Bluestreak obeyed beautifully, his previous defiance buried underneath lust and unfulfilled passion.

Optimus reached behind Bluestreak and clipped his hands together. 

Bluestreak trembled at the soft snick of the clip. It wasn’t a lock, just a clip, but it held Bluestreak captive to his current master’s desires all the same. Bluestreak looked up into Optimus’ eyes, pleading without words. 

“Now,” Optimus said, taking Bluestreak’s chin in his hand. “Let’s discuss how I’m going to fuck my unruly submissive.”

“Can I have my gag?” Bluestreak asked in a small voice. 

Optimus smiled at the mention of Bluestreak’s favorite accessory. Ratchet had left a bit gag sitting among the small pile of toys he’d left behind. “What will you do to earn the right to wear your gag?” Optimus asked, putting the ability to dictate what would happen next on Bluestreak’s shoulders.

Bluestreak looked confused for a moment before his eyes lit up. He glanced conspicuously down, then up at Optimus’ face. “I could give you a blowjob?” he said, his voice a question and a temptation rolled into one. 

“Are you sure that is what you wish to do?” Optimus asked silkely. He was trying to give Bluestreak an out in case the smaller mech didn’t really want to do what he had proposed. 

A glint of frustration quickly flickered through Bluestreak’s field. 

Optimus felt it, and understood that Bluestreak was getting tired of being questioned. “I don’t want to push you further than you are willing to go,” he explained.

The statement, well intentioned as it was, broke the sensual mood that had been building between the two mechs.

“You’re not, and you won’t,” Bluestreak snapped, temper wearing short in the face of Optimus’ continued questioning. At Optimus’ frown Bluestreak explained. “This isn’t the first time we’ve played together. What you are willing to do doesn’t even come close to reaching my limits.” 

“Emotional damage is just as dangerous as physical,” Optimus reminded Bluestreak. He knew he had ‘softer’ kinks than his other officers, but he also knew that he had a talent for stripping a mech down to their rawest emotions. 

“I know,” Bluestreak said, “and I’ll tell you if something goes wrong. It’s just... I enjoy the unknown,” he admitted. If he didn’t trust Optimus completely, he wouldn’t have dared make the admission. “I’ve been talking to Mirage, and I enjoy it best when I don’t really know what is going to happen.”

Optimus frowned, but was careful to keep his feelings out of his field so he didn’t discourage Bluestreak in his vulnerability. “That is dangerous,” he pointed out. 

“With the wrong people, yes,” Bluestreak admitted. “It comes down to trust, however. I trust you not to push me too far, and you trust me to let you know if you do. After all, this probably isn’t going to be more complicated a little suck and fuck. You don’t insist on detailed pre-scene agreements with everyone you drag into the berth, or across the desk, or—?” 

“You have a point.” Optimus rumbled, remembering the recent encounter between himself, his second-in-command, and his third-in-command. Optimus rubbed Bluestreak’s back while he considered the smaller mech’s words. “Can I trust you to tell me to stop?” 

Bluestreak snorted. “Can I trust you to stop if I do?” 

“Yes,” Optimus said solemnly. 

“Then I will,” Bluestreak replied. “Besides, I have Ratchet’s medical alert override program. No matter how much I’m enjoying it, if my systems go outside of Ratchet’s predetermined acceptable range, you are all getting a high priority alert as quickly as the program can push one out.” Bluestreak just hoped that the program didn’t end up pushing out an alert in error, though it hadn’t done so so far, no matter how hard Jazz and Prowl had pushed him.

Now that Optimus thought about it, the timeframe for when Ratchet had developed his program was suspiciously close to the time that Optimus suspected Mirage had attempted suicide. Like Bluestreak said, the program had been created to alert a dominant if the submissive went further than medically advisable. 

Optimus’s hesitation lasted too long for Bluestreak’s thin patience. “If you’re not going to fuck me, just tell me, so I can go find somebody else to take care of this charge,” Bluestreak said crossly. 

He was tired of talking. He was tired of emotional conversations. He just wanted to fuck. Was that so hard? 

Optimus blinked in the face of Bluestreak’s temper. 

Bluestreak eeped as Optimus Prime lifted him effortlessly, setting him down on the floor between Optimus’ spread thighs. 

“Suck,” Optimus ordered, allowing his modesty paneling to slide open. His spike was still retracted, the head barely visible. 

The order vibrated through Bluestreak. He leaned forward, careful to keep his balance as he licked the sheath holding Optimus’ spike. 

Optimus placed a hand on Bluestreak’s head, fondling the smaller mech’s bright red chevron. He leaned backwards in his chair, relaxing into the gently erotic stimulation. 

Bluestreak groaned as Optimus caressed his chevron, but did not stop as he wrapped his lips around the tip of Optimus’ spike and sucked wetly. He did not pull away as Optimus’ spike slowly emerged, filling Bluestreak’s mouth and throat. 

It was too much. With a cough, Bluestreak pulled back, Optimus catching him just before he lost his balance. 

“That’s enough,” Optimus rumbled as Bluestreak leaned forward again, a determined glint in his eyes. 

Bluestreak whined in playful disappointment as Optimus picked him up off the floor. 

This time, instead of straddling Optimus’ lap groin to groin, Optimus turned Bluestreak so that he was sitting sideways across Optimus’ lap. Optimus’ rampant spike poked at Bluestreak’s aft, but the angle was all wrong for penetration, even with a spike as massive as Optimus Prime’s. 

Optimus chuckled as Bluestreak tried to squirm closer. “Open wide,” he said coaxingly. 

Bluestreak did so, closing his eyes in anticipation of the pleasing firmness of a bit gag. 

Instead, he felt the corner of a cube meet his lips. 

Confused, Bluestreak opened his eyes and looked up into Optimus’ eyes. 

Optimus smiled. “Drink it all now,” he coaxed as he slowly tipped the energon into Bluestreak’s wide open intake, careful not to flood his mouth. 

Bluestreak obediently swallowed as Optimus alternately fed him energon and coolant. The strain of the day, combined with the pleasant warmth of a full tank of energon started to take its toll. Bluestreak was pleasantly legarthic by the time Optimus finished. 

Bluestreak rested his eyes while Optimus put away the containers. He stirred slightly as something new pressed against his lips. 

Bluestreak opened his mouth, humming sleepily as Optimus finally pressed in a bit gag, strapping it loosely around Bluestreak’s head. Bluestreak squirmed, his residual charge battling with his tiredness. He rubbed his thighs together, trying to get some stimulation on his still-exposed valve and node. 

Bluestreak felt the rumble of Optimus’ amusement. Optimus lifted him up again, only this time placing Bluestreak face-first onto the conference room table. His legs dangled limply over the edge.

Bluestreak didn't know where Optimus had gotten the pillow from, but he wasn’t about to complain as he closed his eyes and buried his face into the welcoming softness. 

“I’m going to fuck you now,” Optimus explained, his hand going to Bluestreak’s bared array. It was warm and wet with lubricant. Lazy arousal twined through Bluestreak’s field along with approval, followed up by a quick confirmation ping. 

Optimus Prime then slowly, thoroughly, fucked Bluestreak into an incoherent mess. 

Overload provided the final release of tension that Bluestreak had been waiting for. He relaxed as Optimus Prime grunted above him, flooding his valve. Crackles of released electricity jumped between their heated frames. 

Bluestreak laid on the table, his body slack, drifting between half awake and half asleep as Optimus moved around the room. 

Optimus picked up and stashed the extra toys in his subspace to give back to Ratchet. Then, he went to work on hacking the door. It opened surprisingly fast, however. He didn’t bother thinking about it too hard.

Optimus’ overload was a pleasant warmth in his chest, and Bluestreak was purring contentedly as Optimus leaned over to pick him up. 

Optimus scheduled a cleaning drone to see to the mess left behind as he carried Bluestreak to his office. Ratchet must have been by, because there was a comfortable cot already set up in the corner that hadn’t been there earlier. 

Bluestreak finally let himself drift off to sleep as Optimus tucked him in. He didn’t know where he was, but he didn’t care. Optimus was nearby, and everything was good.


	3. Hijinks

Streetwise disembarked from the supply shuttle. Around him mechs moved forward to unload the cargo. He strode across the landing zone with a purpose, as if he belonged at 7-Alpha. 

In reality, Streetwise’s transfer orders were forged. He wasn’t supposed to be here, but calling in a handful of favors had gotten him the right paperwork. 

As far as the Protectobots knew, nobody had questioned why First Aid, one part of a combiner unit, had been transferred away from his team. Even the commander of the outpost where they were stationed seemed uninterested at how long the supposedly temporary assignment dragged on, despite the fact that having a complete combiner team was more of an asset than a broken one.

Initially First Aid had been sent to supplement 7-Alpha’s medical staff after a Decepticon offensive had killed a handful of base medics. It was also a chance for First Aid to connect with other medics and trade training and techniques. However, even as the last of the mechs sent to augment 7-Alpha trickled back, First Aid never returned.

When Streetwise investigated the transfer and why it had been allowed to drag on so long, he had been blocked at every turn. 

Then, First Aid had stopped responding to their messages. 

Hot Spot and the rest of the gestalt agreed. They would need to resort to unofficial channels in order to get First Aid back, and that meant going to 7-Alpha. Unfortunately, they couldn’t all go. It was more discreet to send only one mech. Streetwise, with his specialization in investigation, was the logical choice. Which is how Streetwise ended up stepping off of a supply shuttle into the bustle of base 7-Alpha. 

In the end, his search was anti-climatic.

Streetwise stood outside the closed door of First Aid’s assigned quarters. It had been easy to find in the base computer.

Streetwise stared at the featureless door. He knew that First Aid was inside, he had seen the other mech enter a short while ago. 

Normally Streetwise would have been able to find First Aid without needing to check berth assignments and stakeout locations. The natural bond between gestalt members would have guided him unerringly towards his missing member. However, even standing just outside of the doors, the bond was quiet. Closed tight. 

It was possible that First Aid had merely closed off the bond because he had been alone for so long. The empty feeling of a bond stretched across such a long distance would have gnawed at First Aid’s mind, taunting him with what he couldn’t have. So, it was no wonder that First Aid had locked it down. 

However, something felt wrong. Even closed, Streetwise should have been able to feel _something_ this close to First Aid. 

Streetwise prodded his end of the bond. 

There was no response. 

Streetwise knocked on the door. 

No answer. 

Streetwise knocked again. 

This time there was a faint noise from the other side. It took several minutes, however, before the door opened. 

Streetwise gaped as he saw the mech in the doorway. It was First Aid, but he looked terrible. Granted, First Aid wasn’t a mech who was overly obsessed with his looks, but Streetwise had never seen him this run down. 

First Aid’s finish was abraded and peeling, clearly having not been polished or maintained in some time. His movements were slow, as if he had just woken up. More worryingly, his eyes were dim, as if he was under energized. 

Streetwise was instantly worried. What had happened that First Aid had let himself go like this, and why hadn’t he contacted them? 

“First Aid...” Streetwise didn’t know what else to say. He and his brothers had been working toward this moment for so long, but when the moment came, words escaped him. 

Streetwise didn’t miss the panicked look that crossed First Aid’s face as he slowly realized just who was standing at his door. 

“You can’t be here,” First Aid hissed furtively, glancing past Streetwise worriedly, as if he was searching for something. 

“What do you mean?” Streetwise asked, confused. First Aid hadn’t even greeted him. Where had his cheerful, bouncy brother gone?

“A visitor, First Aid?” a silky smooth voice came from behind Streetwise. 

Streetwise turned to see an impeccably-polished flight frame with a full medic’s symbols standing a few doors down, obviously coming back from his shift. 

“Wrong quarters,” First Aid said in a flat tone of voice. He didn’t look at the other mech, instead staring at the wall across the hallway with an alarmingly blank look on his face. 

“You need to go to the next corridor and take a left,” First Aid continued, as if he was giving directions to a confused newcomer. He then closed the door in Streetwise’s face. 

Streetwise blinked at the closed door in shock, trying to absorb what had just happened. 

“It’s so easy to get lost when you first arrive.”

The comment drew Streetwise’s attention back to the other mech in the hallway. 

The flight frame sauntered closer, his body swaying temptingly. “My name is Pharma,” the medic introduced himself with a slight bow. He didn’t bother to hide how his assessing gaze raked down Streetwise’s body. 

Streetwise was suspicious. 

“Streetwise,” he replied shortly, narrowing his eyes and using his field to telegraph how uninterested he was in the other mech.

Pharma just laughed airily, undisturbed by Streetwise’s hostile manner. “I’ll see you around,” he purred. He gave Streetwise a casual wave as he strutted past the other mech. “After all, everybody ends up in the medbay eventually.” With these vaguely threatening final words Pharma palmed open a door at the end of the hallway and entered what was presumably his quarters. 

Streetwise briefly heard a second voice from the room before the door closed behind the large jet. 

Left alone in the hallway, Streetwise again touched the bond between himself and First Aid. 

It was no use. The bond was still as quiet as it had been for the last few months. 

Discontent, Streetwise left to find his assigned quarters. There was a mystery here, and he would get to the bottom of it. 

It was what he specialized in.

***

Mirage stood in the middle of the SpecOps briefing room. His arms were suspended by the wrists from the ceiling with chains and his legs were spread and chained down to the floor. Pulled tight between four points of restraint, Mirage’s body was splayed in an X. Every part of him was open. Vulnerable. 

Mirage stood patiently. Even if he had been unrestrained, he would not move. Mirage had been placed here by his master, he would obey. 

Mirage may have been the only mech in the room, but he knew that he was not really alone. 

Jazz was with Hound in the observation room next door, where they could both observe Mirage through the shielded window. There Jazz would brief Hound on his role in the operation before they came to prepare Mirage for the role he was to perform. 

Mirage was safe here. These rooms were buried deep in SpecOps territory. Deeper than the offices and personnel quarters, only the interrogation and special holding cells were higher security. In the safety and isolation of these rooms, Jazz prepared his agents for their missions. Sensitive information could be shared and discussed. Here operatives could remake themselves into whatever, whomever their cover story demanded they become. 

The mechs who entered these rooms walked in as Autobots, and more often than not left as Decepticons. The changes required were deeper than merely a new paint job, alt mode, or even brand. SpecOps agents needed to become their cover. To survive demanded mechs to show the right personality and behaviors.

Those who knew about Mirage’s special ability assumed that the master spy used his invisibility to sneak through Decepticon bases, gathering information as he went. In reality, the most effective spies and infiltrators were those who were trusted; those who were able to walk right in the front door. Sure, the ability to become invisible was handy in this line of work, but only occasionally. More often than not, Mirage’s ability to convincingly act like a Decepticon was of greater use. 

That was why SpecOps had their own backdoor entrance, watched over by handpicked guards. It was not unusual for a SpecOps mech to come back from a mission still running Decepticon protocols. They needed somewhere where they could be contained and safely disarmed before they returned to daily life on the base. 

These rooms were where they could shed their assumed persona. They could rant and rave as temporary paint was stripped from their body, and their minds were - carefully - cracked open. Not only to remove the intelligence that they had come back with, but to subdue the persona within. In these rooms SpecOps changed from Decepticons trapped in the middle of an enemy base into fellow Autobots. 

The mission that Mirage and Hound were to be sent on would not be as complicated, relatively speaking. They were not infiltrating an enemy base, but a friendly one. Hound could even go as himself. To the Autobots at large he was known as a relatively low-ranking scout. Talented, but not remarkable. 

Mirage, however, was widely known as the famously aloof and snooty noble second-in-command of SpecOps. His public persona had been carefully crafted, but it also meant that he could not go on this mission as ‘Mirage.’ Not without drawing attention to the fact that SpecOps was looking for something. 

That could lead to its own problems. 

Mirage hadn’t meant to bust up a smuggling ring. At the time he’d been tracking down a suspected Decepticon double agent. Unfortunately, the officer at the supply depot Mirage had been travelling through had been twitchy enough to draw Mirage’s attention and deeper scrutiny. By the time everything was done, neither Jazz nor Mirage had been happy. SpecOps had bigger concerns than a small-time smuggler. Instead, they’d turned over the mech responsible to Ultra Magnus for punishment. Rumor claimed that, even years later, the mech would still recite parts of the Autobot code during his recharge. 

Mirage caught himself starting to sway back and forth and stilled himself. It was an uncomfortable position to be in, but he would stay. At least, until Jazz came back with Hound. It might take a while, though. Hound would need time to come to terms with the role he was going to play. 

While Hound could be dominant to Mirage, it was all just a berth game for Hound. It was for fun. In the same way that Mirage was willing to play along with the mechanimal play that Hound liked, Hound was willing to play along with the domination that Mirage liked. Hound liked the kinky sex, but he wasn’t interested in dominating Mirage the way that Jazz could.

While part of Mirage hoped that Hound would not push himself too far to fill the role, he also accepted the fact that it would be far from the first time that the SpecOps agent had been asked to do something outside his normal comfort zone. Mirage didn’t know one SpecOps agent who hadn’t done something during a mission that they wouldn’t normally do in their everyday life. 

It was one reason why SpecOps mechs tended to stick to their own. At least a fellow SpecOps mech wouldn’t expect you to tell them what your nightmares were about. After all, they had many of the same ones. 

Mirage trembled in anticipation as the door opened. He raised his gaze to the mechs entering. 

Jazz’s sleek black and white frame preceded Hound’s larger, more utilitarian form. 

Mirage felt a sense of relief. 

The two mechs focused on the mech hanging in the center of the room. 

“So. This is what I have to work with,” Hound said as if he was continuing a conversation that had paused halfway. 

Mirage could tell that Hound was not talking to Mirage. Hound’s gaze swept over Mirage as he circled the bound mech. His voice carried a possessive edge that was unusual for the friendly mech. It was closer to the tone of voice that his master would use with Jazz. Mirage recognized that Hound was getting into the role, practicing his lines with a safe audience. 

Mirage tried to straighten, preening under Hound’s appreciative gaze and trying to twist his body to subtly highlight his best features. He was so focused on the mech circling him that he missed Jazz’s appreciative grin from where his master stood next to the closed door. 

Jazz stepped forward. “Yah have any requests for what color you want him to be?” Jazz asked Hound, pointedly ignoring Mirage as well. 

Mirage’s dislike rippled faintly through his field before he could rein it in. He hated getting repainted. Mirage understood why it was necessary, but that still didn’t mean that he liked it. He had put a lot of work into crafting his appearance exactly the way it was.

After Umbra had become Mirage, he had gone full-out changing his form. Unfortunately, due to supply shortages, Mirage had not been able to test out every possible color combination in person. He’d had to settle for SpecOps’ holographic scanner and color-manipulation program. Even then, it had still taken fifteen repaints before Mirage had been satisfied with his new body. 

However, that didn’t excuse Mirage from being required to change his finish for a mission. At least this time he probably wouldn’t need to change his alt mode. 

“I was thinking something green,” Hound replied.

Jazz smirked as he turned to the terminal in the room and opened a saved file. The large screen on the wall lit up with several different images of Mirage, each with a paint pattern that Mirage had used in the past. For continuity’s sake, SpecOps kept track of which design an agent’s persona used. After all, it wouldn’t do for an agent to walk around using a name that didn’t match their paint scheme. Agents had been killed for less. 

Jazz narrowed down the selections on the screen to those that fit Hound’s requirement. 

Hound stepped up behind Mirage and laid a casually possessive hand on the small of the bound mech’s back as he looked over Mirage’s shoulder at the screen. 

“Do you have that design from 16-17 years ago? From the mission where I escorted Mirage to Gamma-52?” Hound asked. The base didn’t exist any more, having been swallowed up soon after by a Decepticon advance. 

Mirage remembered the mission well, and he wagered Jazz also remembered it. Not just because Mirage had come back damaged, but because Mirage, in addition to coming back with very important information, had also come back with a story involving a minibot, a pail of paint stripper, a seeker, and a gallon of joint lubricant. The story had eventually been told and retold so many times by SpecOps agents that it had even passed into urban legend among the wider Autobot army — albeit in a very distorted, and embellished, form. 

The paint job hadn’t been too bad, either. 

Mirage swayed closer to Hound, snuggling up to him the best that he could. 

Hound slipped his arm around Mirage’s waist, pulling him tight. 

Mirage squeaked as the additional pressure pulled one arm further than the chain would allow. 

Hound sidestepped to relieve the pressure. He leaned down to nibble at Mirage’s neck. 

Mirage rolled his eyes, safe in the knowledge that neither mech could see it. Hound always liked using his teeth. 

Hound gave Mirage a swift, authoritative swat to his backside. 

Apparently Mirage hadn’t been as subtle as he had thought. 

Hound groped Mirage’s aft, sliding his hand confidently down until it rested firmly between Mirage’s legs.

Mirage twisted his hips slightly, grinding down as much as his bonds allowed him to. 

“What about his seals?” Hound growled. His voice, rough with lust, sent a shiver of anticipation through Mirage. 

Jazz’s voice betrayed his amusement. “They’ll stay on,” he said decisively, moving away from the computer controls and closer to where the two mechs stood entwined with each other. Jazz reached up to cradle the side of Mirage’s face in his palm. “It will be his reward when he comes back,” Jazz said, speaking to Hound, but staring directly into Mirage’s eyes. 

Mirage whimpered, turning his head to nuzzle Jazz’s palm. He’d been looking forward to losing his chastity before the mission. However, this time they’d be infiltrating an Autobot base, not a Decepticon one. Friendly territory — or so they assumed. 

When it came to this, Mirage could always override Jazz’s decision, but he wouldn’t without a compelling reason. In fact, Mirage wanted the reminder that he belonged to his master. He wanted to keep his seals because it was the closest that he could come to having his master along with him on this mission. Because it reminded Mirage that he was owned. That he was loved. Mirage had somebody to come back to. 

Jazz tapped Mirage’s cheek with his fingertips firmly. “Back with us?” Jazz asked mildly as Mirage’s attention turned back to him. 

Mirage nodded, still somewhat dazed by the emotional undercurrent in the room.

Jazz smiled an honest smile. 

Mirage lipped gently at Jazz’s fingers, and Jazz’s smile widened, now with an added edge of anticipation. 

“We’ll wait until you come back,” Jazz murmured intimately to Mirage. “We’ll make it a party. Convince Bluestreak to come. It wouldn’t be too hard. I’ll enjoy having my two submissives play with each other for my pleasure.” 

Jazz could tell from Mirage’s lively field that the bound mech looked forward to the possibility very much. 

Hound’s hand clenched at the plating between Mirage’s legs, drawing a whimper from the bound submissive. Hound’s arm tightened around Mirage’s waist as he buried his head in the crook of Mirage’s neck with a groan. 

“Poor Hound,” Jazz crooned, turning his attention towards the other submissive in the room. Jazz released Mirage, who made a brief disappointed sound before he was hushed by his master. “Were you looking forward to Mirage’s valve, or his spike?” Jazz’s fingers found Hound’s chin and nudged the mech’s head upwards until he was looking Jazz in the face. 

“Valve,” Hound answered bluntly, looking helplessly into Jazz’s eyes. 

Jazz smirked at the larger submissive. His expression offered sin and temptation. “Mirage’s is off limits... for now. How about you spike me instead?” Jazz proposed. 

Hound nodded his head eagerly. 

Jazz stepped back from the two mechs, his hand falling from Hound’s face. 

Mirage made a low sound as first his master, then his fellow submissive left his side. His plating felt cold now. 

“Don’t worry,” Jazz reassured Mirage. He reached down and opened a panel on the side of his torso. From underneath he unspooled a long length of cable. “You’ll be with us for every moment.” Jazz’s expression was devilish with lustful implications.

Mirage slid open his receptive ports. 

With a snick Jazz inserted his connector firmly into Mirage’s port. 

It took barely a moment for Mirage’s systems to sync with Jazz’s. 

Then, Mirage could feel everything. 

Mirage could feel Jazz’s burning passion, the need that had been driving him since Mirage had made his offer on bended knees. Underneath that, Mirage could feel the tightly leashed violence and danger, carefully controlled, that drove Jazz’s darker impulses. It was a side of himself that Jazz didn’t bother hiding from Mirage anymore. As Jazz had learned Mirage’s deepest hidden cravings, so Mirage had learned Jazz’s. After all, Mirage was Jazz’s. He would not betray him. He could not betray him.

Mirage attempted to reach out and soothe the part of Jazz that burned cold, only to realize that the connection was one way only. He trembled at the implications. Mirage would be subject to all of Jazz’s feelings and emotions while he copulated with Hound. It would pour into Mirage and through him, driving him to new heights of passionate insanity. 

“One of these days, you’re going to drive me so far into frustration that I’m only going to be good for fucking” Mirage said, with wry, desperate irreverence. 

“Would that be so bad?” Jazz replied entrancingly as Hound’s connector clicked into a second of Mirage’s open, receptive ports. 

With a rush, Hound’s own frustrated desires hit Mirage. The two mech’s lust pulling him under a tidal wave of sexual passion. 

“No,” Mirage replied faintly to Jazz’s question even as he was driven to new heights of sexual stimulation. 

Jazz lowered himself to the ground, pulling Hound down on top of him.

The chains binding Mirage were the only thing holding him upright as he writhed under the emotional onslaught.

Mirage watched with a blank-eyed stare as Jazz teased Hound, driving the frustrated mech even further. It wasn’t that Jazz wasn’t already ready. Mirage could feel just how riled up Jazz really was. What Jazz wanted, though, was power over Hound. The control that he wielded over Hound, and the begging that accompanied it, was to Jazz the finest aphrodisiac. 

Mirage dangled in his bonds as Jazz finally pulled Hound closer, angling his hips to allow the larger mech to penetrate him. 

Mirage’s hips moved absently as Hound lost control under Jazz’s teasing hands and goading voice. Jazz pushed Hound to fuck him harder and harder. Drawing out of Hound the animalistic wildness that was so fundamental to the mech’s nature. 

Linked to both mechs by one way connections, Mirage was both fucked and being fucked. However, every time that Mirage’s spike or valve tried to gather charge in response to the mental stimulation, the chastity seals drew it out and dispersed it. No matter how much sensation the two lovers poured into Mirage, he himself could not climax. 

All Mirage could focus on were the two mechs writhing on the ground in front of him. 

All Mirage could hear was the sound of their clashing bodies, wet with lubricant, and hungry grunts of exertion. 

Mirage wailed mindlessly as first Jazz, then Hound, finally overloaded. Their climaxes ripped through their connection to Mirage. While his chastity dispersed the charge, the emotions were still there. 

Mirage’s frustration was building to a fever pitch. He wanted to beg, but he didn’t have the mind to do so. 

Instead, Mirage hung there, keening softly, needfully, as Hound collapsed on top of Jazz, the air around both mech’s bodies rippling with residual heat. 

Eventually, a jolt roused Mirage from his aroused stupor. 

The chains that had been holding him up were moving. 

He was being lowered, slowly. 

Mirage’s knees, weak from the relentless arousal simmering through his lines, could not support his weight. He slowly knelt on the floor, arms still raised. 

Jazz stood in front of Mirage, drawing the submissive’s attention to his master’s face. 

Jazz looked down into the tortured face of his submissive — his slave, though he avoided thinking that word, even in the privacy of his own thoughts. 

It was too much temptation. 

Mirage didn’t even notice Hound lying on the floor behind Jazz, watching the show as his systems worked to recover. 

Jazz must have liked what he saw, because he gave Mirage a small, reassuring smile before he leaned down to carefully remove the cords from Mirage’s ports. 

Mirage relaxed, but only slightly, as the banked fire of Jazz and Hound’s arousal was suddenly cut off. 

Now Mirage was left to stew in his own emotions. 

His own arousal. 

His spike could not extend. His valve could not lubricate. But Mirage still needed release. 

Mirage knew that Jazz was planning something. He just didn’t know what. 

Jazz’s touch brought Mirage’s lust-soaked attention back to him as he cradled Mirage’s upturned, yearning face. 

“Shhhh.” Jazz wordlessly soothed his desperate submissive. “When you come back, this will be your reward,” Jazz said, his smooth, dark voice winding seductively through Mirage’s mind. 

Mirage made a wordless moan; a primal, incoherent plea. He couldn’t do this. Not now. Not like this. He yearned too much. 

It was too much. 

“Shhhh,” Jazz stroked Mirage’s cheeks soothingly. “I won’t leave you to suffer,” he said, with a demon’s gentle smile. 

Jazz knelt down, knee to knee with Mirage. His hands moved lower, tracing down the center of Mirage’s chest until they came to rest on Mirage’s hips. 

“Open,” Jazz ordered, his mouth a breath away from Mirage’s. 

Mirage didn’t consciously understand what Jazz meant. 

Did he want Mirage to open his mouth? It already was. 

Did he want Mirage to open his interface paneling? He’d already said that Mirage was not going to have his chastity removed. 

Even though Mirage’s conscious mind didn’t understand what his master wanted, his body knew the answer. 

Mirage was startled to realize that the clicking sounds he heard deep within his body were his inner locks springing open. The process initialized without his conscious trigger, sliding armor and internals aside until his spark was bared to his master. It lit their faces from below. 

Surprised, Mirage could only make a wordlessly questioning sound. All coherent thought had been driven out of his desire-fogged mind. 

“Beautiful,” Jazz breathed worshipfully, one hand rising to gently touch the corona of Mirage’s spark. 

Mirage arched backwards in his bonds, thrusting his chest forward.

On the floor behind Jazz, Hound lay very, very still. While the show in front of him was hotter than anything he’d seen since Ultra Magnus had confiscated Red Alert’s porno stash, he knew that he needed to be very careful. Especially with these two mechs. Hound knew that, if Mirage felt threatened, his bonds would not prevent him from striking back. Likewise, Jazz would act decisively to protect what was his. While Hound counted as Jazz’s enough to stay in the room during such an encounter, it was safer not to press his luck. 

Besides, it wasn’t every day he got a live demonstration of spark play. 

Then, the unexpected happened. Jazz’s armor also parted, revealing his spark to Mirage. 

The sparklight spilling out from between the two mechs doubled in intensity. 

Jazz looked up at Mirage and carefully brought his face closer. “Say yes,” he asked, his lips next to Mirage’s cheek. 

It was all Mirage could do to whisper “yes.”

Jazz leaned forward gently, carefully, matching the unconscious sway of Mirage’s body. 

The coronas of their sparks met, then merged, tendrils twining around each other. 

Surface feelings hit first — a heady swirl of lust, love, passion, anxiety, reassurance, confidence, impatience, and more. The line between each emotion blurred, one into another; one mech into another. 

Spark merging was rare. The sheer physical vulnerability stopped many mechs from even attempting it; the imperative to preserve their life stronger than their urge to join with another. Others could not deal with the emotional exposure of a merge.

Inside the merge Mirage could see more of Jazz than most other mechs ever did. He could clearly see the darkness that he knew lay hidden within Jazz. Mirage could also see the complicated knot of emotions that Jazz held for him — both the positive, and the not so positive. Jazz’s need to possess and control clashed with his need to love and nurture. Each emotion held its own trap, and Mirage could see the balancing act that Jazz negotiated in order to balance Jazz the mech with Mirage the mech, and Jazz the master with Mirage the slave, and even Jazz the commander with Mirage his second-in-command. 

However, Jazz could see Mirage as well. Jazz could see the uncertainty that Mirage grappled with and hid most of the time. The fractured emotions that haunted the mech that had been Umbra. The questions around how far the programming had gone, how much of him it had changed, and Mirage’s worry that he was still influenced by it. 

Despite the swirl of doubt, Mirage’s trust in Jazz was a steady beacon. Despite everything they had been through, _because_ of everything they had been through, Mirage trusted Jazz. It was part of the foundation that Mirage had used to build himself back up afterwards. 

Jazz was humbled by this, even as part of him basked greedily in the devotion Mirage showed him.

Eventually, the emotional build up could not be held back any more, and the two mechs overloaded. 

Jazz fell back into Hound’s waiting arms while Mirage sagged limply in his chains. Automatic processes closed their chests again, locking their sparks behind thick armor and internal structures. 

All three mechs lay in a frozen tableau for several minutes as their fans worked frantically to cool down their overheated frames. 

“And we haven’t even finished the repaint yet,” Hound quipped, once he determined that it was safe to speak. 

Mirage huffed in a very inelegant way. “You’ll need to winch me up again, because there is no way that I’m going to be able to stand.”

“We’ll need to towel you down first,” Jazz observed, rolling out of Hound’s arms to lay on his back on the cool floor. 

Mirage looked down. Sure enough, his body was streaked with condensation. “You don’t need to sound so happy about that,” he replied wryly. He knew that Jazz and Hound would use the repainting process as an opportunity for more groping. Not to mention the ticklish torture he was bound to receive as the two mechs detailed his body.

“You say that as if you’re not looking forward to it,” Hound teased Mirage. 

Mirage just made a face while the other two mechs laughed. 

He and Hound would have to leave soon enough. At least now he had one hell of a memory to take with him.


	4. Dinner Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surprise!

Hound reclined against the back of the chair, which protested with a loud squeak. He huffed as he felt Mirage shake with silent laughter against the paneling of his inner thigh. 

Both agents were in the small quarters that they had been assigned at the 7-Alpha base. Transportation had been smooth, and there had been absolutely no indication that anybody thought that their arrival had been out of place. Since it was late in the day when they arrived, Hound and Mirage — who was now going by the name Mistero — had spent the evening surveying the mess hall while Hound had his energon. They were planning on exploring the base in more detail the next day. 

They’d gotten lucky. 

Hound had noticed Ambulon first. The medic had been on the other side of the mess, in the company of another medic, having his evening energon. Hound had discreetly observed the mech while Mirage continued carefully setting up a remote access into the base computer.

After the two medics left, Hound and Mirage headed back to their quarters. They needed to talk about what they had seen and solidify their plans for the next day. 

Hound also needed to feed Mirage his dinner 

Mirage was on his knees at Hound’s feet, waiting patiently. 

:Ambulon looked well,: Mirage commented over the heavily-encrypted comm line that connected the two mechs. His voice was smooth and professional, a contrast to the pleading look on his face as he watched Hound untangle the knot of tubing that he had taken out of his subspace. Mirage’s fingers stroked gently at Hound’s ankle. (Jazz would have kept Mirage under stricter control, but Hound preferred more of tactile interaction.)

Mirage had been worried that somebody would figure out Ambulon’s secret before they could get to him, even though he understood that it unlikely that anything would change in the couple of days that it had taken for Hound and Mirage to arrive. In any case, they didn’t know if Ambulon had a master, but they needed to be careful just in case the other mech did. 

:Hopefully that’s a good sign,: Hound replied back. :However it’s too soon to make any conclusions.: 

A faintly indignant look crossed Mirage’s face before he could stop it. :You don’t need to tell me,: he replied curtly, reminding his fellow agent that he was the more senior, and that this assignment was more Mirage’s speciality than Hound’s.

Hound untangled his fingers from the tubing long enough to reassuringly stroke Mirage’s helm. “Don’t worry,” Hound’s voice was playfully reassuring, a marked contrast from his own professional voice over the comms. “You’ll get your dinner soon enough.” 

Mirage nipped at Hound’s fingers as he drew them away, before settling back on his heels and nuzzling Hound’s thigh with a resigned sound. 

:Did you find anything interesting in the base records so far?: Hound asked as he fastened the tubing to the bottom of the cube of energon that sat on the small table next to him. 

Mirage’s eyes followed Hound’s every move hungrily. :There is no record of Ambulon reporting having experienced missed time — so if it’s happened, it hasn’t been reported to command or to medical.: It could be a good sign. Ambulon would likely have missing time if he had a master triggering the programming.

Autobot security was keenly aware of the possibility of Decepticon infiltrators. It wasn’t completely unheard of for a captured mech to be reprogrammed and sent back to spy on their own side. (The skill required to do so, however, was increasingly uncommon due to targeted assassination missions.) Because of this possibility, in addition to the usual checks that medical ran during a mech’s regular maintenance, the Autobot propaganda department also published informational bulletins urging mechs to be on the lookout. Even if Ambulon had never officially reported having gaps in his memories, if he had mentioned something to another mech it should have gotten him flagged for further investigation by security. 

:It’s possible that his programming hasn’t been discovered and exploited,: Hound pointed out. :Percepter’s device just tells us if somebody has the coding in their system, not if it’s live or not.: 

:True,: Mirage conceded.

Hound gently bopped Mirage on the nose, causing the submissive mech to cross his eyes while keeping track of Hound’s hand. 

Mirage’s fingers tightened on Hound’s ankle as his dominant’s interface paneling finally unlocked and slid aside, revealing Hound’s slowly expanding spike. 

Contrary to his reputation, the size of Hound’s spike was average for a mech of his stature. Its special modifications were what made Hound’s spike such a treat for a size slut like Mirage. The knot at the base of the spike may have been currently deflated, but Mirage still knew what the spike was like when it was engorged. He’d had it in his mouth more than once. The very pleasant memories of which had him leaning forward in anticipation. 

“Back,” Hound ordered in a mild voice as Mirage nearly bumped his nose against the back of Hound’s hands in his eagerness. 

Hound could have ordered Mirage to suck on his spike for a few moments to bring it to full extension, instead of waiting, but he didn’t. He would be getting more than enough of Mirage’s oral attention tonight, and every night of this mission. He could wait a little longer. 

The anticipation itself was unbearably erotic, and Hound almost understood what Mirage liked about chastity. 

:What about the mech that was glued to Ambulon’s side?: Hound commented casually over the comm while his hands worked on his spike.

Mirage looked up at Hound, dazed, before remembering what they had been talking before Hound’s spike had come out. He almost whimpered, looking down at Hound’s spike — so tantalizingly close — before looking back up at Hound’s face so he could focus. (This reminded Mirage of a few of the missions that he and Jazz had gone on together. Mirage experienced a brief pang as he realized that he missed his master, before he set the feeling aside.)

:That was the mech who reported back to Ratchet. First Aid,: Mirage noted as he cross-correlated his information with that from the base computer. He already had a dossier on First Aid that had been assembled back at base, but local knowledge was always helpful.

:Compared to his friend, he didn’t look so good,: Hound said casually, his voice remarkably steady for a mech who was currently fastening a line of tubing to the bottom of his erect spike using bands that wrapped around the spike. The contraption was complicated enough that Hound had to look down as he worked so that he didn’t pinch anything sensitive. 

Mirage avoided looking down. He knew what the other mech was doing, and the sight of it would be too tempting. :We don’t know if that’s normal, or if it’s due to something else,: Mirage pointed out. :We also don’t know if it has anything to do with Ambulon.:

“True,” Hound acknowledged out loud, then froze, quickly scanning the area for anybody who might have overheard. Fortunately, there was nobody nearby and the door was locked. Besides, Hound hadn’t said anything revealing. 

Hound relaxed and sat back in his chair again. He waved towards his spike. “Dinnertime,” he said with a grin. :Keep researching First Aid. I have a feeling,: he added over comms. Hound was vaguely curious if Mirage would be able to multitask or not.

Mirage kept his groan internal even as he eagerly leaned forward, his mouth open to receive Hound’s ready spike. 

Hound growled as Mirage’s lips moved down his spike, sheathing it in the welcoming warmth of Mirage’s mouth. Mirage’s tongue firmly caressed the underside of Hound’s spike. Hound found the sensation though the thin walls of the tubing strange, but still arousing. 

The contraption Hound was using to feed Mirage was similar in concept to the oversized false spike that Jazz occasionally rewarded Mirage with, only using a real spike instead of the fake. Thin tubing ran from a cube of energon, which was placed on a table above Hound’s crotch level. In theory, all it would take is simple gravity and Mirage would be able to drink his energon easily. 

However, nothing Jazz designed would be that easy for Mirage. 

The tubing had only a small hole at the end of the tube, which prevented the energon from flowing freely unless Mirage sucked and massaged the tubing to force it out. This effort naturally translated into increased sensation for the mech serving as Mirage’s spike. 

This set up could be used not only to tease Mirage, but the spike mech as well. The tube was held on using a set of rings that wrapped around the spike. The rings contained an inhibitor that could be used to prevent the spike mech from coming, creating a pleasurable torment for the mech with Mirage’s mouth wrapped around his spike. (Jazz would occasionally order other submissives to use the setting while feeding Mirage.)

However, even if the inhibition function was turned off, the rings still covered a portion of the spike’s surface sensors. This dulled the sensation, which Hound was glad for in this case. He wouldn’t last too long otherwise. 

Hound’s hands flew to Mirage’s helm, gripping tightly, but not so tightly that he prevented Mirage from moving. Because Mirage was a miracle worker with his mouth. His lips and tongue worked together to both suction energon down and into his throat, as well as to massage Hound’s spike with expert care. 

“Primus!” Hound bucked up sharply as Mirage suddenly closed his lips and sucked hard. The submissive took the thrust down his throat without flinching. When Mirage released the pressure Hound slumped back down into the chair. 

An automatic alert popped up on Hound’s HUD. :Incoming,: Hound warned his partner. His voice, even over the comms, sounded ragged with lust. 

:I know,: Mirage replied coolly, his voice somehow more composed and calmer than Hound’s. 

Mirage did not pull back, even as the — locked — door to the room opened. 

The white and red mech in the doorway froze for a brief moment before, with a determined look in his eye, he entered the room and closed the door behind him. 

“Now,” Hound said with a lazy drawl, “I don’t remember inviting anyone to join us.” He looked the interloper straight in the eye even as he bucked up into Mirage’s mouth again.

The new mech ignored the accusation and stood squarely. “Why are you so interested in First Aid?” he demanded. 

“Hmmmm,” Hound hummed as he closed his eyes and lazily thrust a few more times into Mirage’s throat. The unexpected intrusion, and the heightened combat protocols that accompanied it, had dampened his arousal, but not by that much. (For a SpecOps agent, danger was a constant companion, and the best agents thrived on it.) 

“First Aid...” Hound said musingly as he opened his eyes to look at the new mech again. 

The mech hadn’t moved. He just stood there, watching. 

“Sounds like a medic. Was he one of two in the mess? The pretty one with wings?” As if Hound didn’t know exactly who First Aid was. 

Due to Mirage’s skill Hound wasn’t able to hold back any more. With a shout, he overloaded, Mirage easily swallowing the mixture of energon and mech fluid that filled his mouth. 

Bonelessly, Hound slumped in his chair, dazedly patting Mirage’s helm. 

Between his legs, Mirage continued his ministrations. After all, he hadn’t swallowed all the energon yet. Mirage’s only concession to Hound’s current state was to ease off on the firmness of his suckling. 

Not that it helped that much. When Hound rolled his head to the side to check, the cube was still two thirds of the way full. He was in for a very pleasant evening. 

Hound rolled his head back, looking up at the unknown mech. “What’d you say?” he drawled nonchalantly. 

The other mech was as straight as a statue, and looked to be just as uninterested. “Why are you interested in First Aid?” he repeated, ignoring Hound’s questions. 

Hound shook his head. “Don’t know who First Aid is. But, if I was looking at him, it’s because Mistero and I,” he rubbed Mirage’s helm, causing the submissive mech to purr in delight, “are looking for a third for some fun.” He smiled suggestively up at the unknown mech, “How about it? Want some fun, stranger?”

“Streetwise,” the mech said curtly. It was the first thing he had said that wasn’t his demand. Probably his name, Hound figured.

“Hound,” Hound replied. “Do you always introduce yourself to new partners by breaking into their berthroom?” 

“I...” Streetwise seemed at a loss for words. Whatever he had planned for this encounter, this was clearly not what he had expected to happen. Instead of catching Mirage and Hound off balance, he had been the one caught off balance.

:Gestalt,: Mirage commed Hound. 

:Gah?: Unfortunately, Hound was not as good as Mirage at multitasking. Especially when he was well on his way to his second overload. Only the rings covering his spike gave Hound the ability to last a little longer than he normally would under Mirage’s expert skills. 

:First Aid and Streetwise are part of a gestalt. The Protectobots. Curiously, the rest of the group are stationed at another base,: Mirage explained. 

Hound may be lust-addled, but he wasn’t stupid. He could recognize that they had just stumbled over another mystery. Hound just didn’t know if it had anything to do with their mission. Not that he was currently capable of complicated thinking. He’d have to trust Mirage, and revisit the topic later. 

“Aren’t you Special Operations?” Streetwise asked. 

The question drew Hound’s attention back to the mech standing in the room. 

Hound smiled loopily. “Only technically. I’m just a scout. Here to survey the borderlands before we move on to the next base. There are higher ranking SpecOps base than... SpecOps mechs on base than me,” Hound corrected himself. “Talk to them.” 

“But you’re new, and something is not right at this base,” Streetwise explained. 

“Really?” Hound said absently as he pulled Mirage’s head down sharply and came again. This time it felt more like an ebbing wave than a crashing tsunami. He felt as if his struts would turn into molten puddles. 

Hound looked over at the cube on the table and groaned. Still half full. Fuck.

“This is awesome,” Hound declared with a grin, dazedly patting at Mirage’s head. 

Mirage smiled the best he could with a spike in his mouth, pleased at the praise. 

Streetwise made a disgusted sound. “Do you think of anything other than interfacing?” he said, his voice sharp with exasperation. 

Hound looked blankly up at the mech. “Do you always break into other mech’s rooms uninvited?”

Mirage’s head bobbed steadily between Hound’s thighs. 

With another sound of disgust, Streetwise turned and stalked out of the room. 

Fortunately, he shut the door after himself, because Hound didn’t think he’d have the strength to get up and close it. 

:Looks like you were right. Something is up with First Aid.: Mirage commed Hound. :We’ll need to investigate him further.: It may not be part of their official mission, but Mirage was on the scent of a secret now, and he wouldn’t rest until he dug it out.

Hound was too far gone to reply however. With the other mech gone, his combat routines were cycling down and he was better able to enjoy Mirage without distraction. 

Hound didn’t even care that the door was unlocked. After all, if anybody else came in, he’d just invite them to join in. 

He needed to do more missions with Mirage.


	5. Homecoming

Jazz woke without a twitch, his stealth subroutines having come online automatically. 

There was another mech in his quarters. 

Jazz wasn’t in his official quarters, which were near the rest of the officers, but his SpecOps quarters. In the highest security section of Iacon Base. 

An assassin? 

If so, they were talented enough to get in, but they weren’t trying to hide anymore. The sounds of an engine pushed to its limits too long and a body struggling to cool down were faint, but not hidden.

Jazz recognized...

Jazz turned his head. 

In the darkened room Mirage — or rather, Mistero — knelt next to his master’s bed; head down and hands on his knees. The green-painted finish of his disguise was marred with deep gashes and dents, as if he had been running hard for quite some time. 

Jazz frowned. There were procedures in place for agents returning from a mission. Mirage had ignored all of them.

Something was wrong.

Jazz pinged the head of security with a terse command as he slid off the berth. It would be Red Alert’s job to figure out how Mirage got in, and what, if anything, might have been compromised before Jazz had discovered the agent.

Mirage didn’t even flinch as an automated message flashed across his HUD, notifying him that his security clearances had been suspended. All of his clearances. He wouldn’t even be able to leave Jazz’s room without alerting security. 

“I am sorry, master.” Mirage’s hushed voice was rough, very unlike his usually polished enunciation. 

Jazz shushed his second, running his fingers across Mirage’s lips. The movement must have reopened a small cut, because Jazz’s fingertips came back lightly tainted with Mirage’s energon. “You’re back.” It was faint reassurance, given that Jazz didn’t know yet what had happened, but for now it was enough.

The cuffs Jazz pulled out of his subspace were not as gentle as his words had been. They were not the kind of restraints used for play, even for the hardest and most violent fantasies. Play cuffs, even those that shocked or caused pain, still had safety features that allowed the submissive mech to escape if needed. These did not. They were restraints meant for prisoners. In fact, the pair that Jazz pulled out had been specially designed to subdue Umbra, nullifying all of the assassin’s tricks. 

They would do the same for Mirage. 

“You know what must happen,” Jazz’s voice was serene, yet uncompromising. 

Mirage nodded. 

As the cuffs snapped shut — first around Mirage’s wrists, then his ankles — a powerful stasis field sprung to life, sapping the kneeling mech’s strength. Mirage was now hobbled, his stealth hindered and his invisibility impossible to use. 

Not that Mirage couldn’t escape the cuffs eventually, despite how well they had been designed. After all, he had been trained to be the best. But Mirage wouldn’t, for more reasons than he could articulate.

Mirage trembled as Jazz knelt in front of him. His voice cracked as he tried to say something but stopped himself. He had failed the mission. He had failed his master. Did he really deserve mercy?

Mirage knew that Jazz wouldn’t send him away. After all, there was no retiring from Special Operations. Not really. Once in, the only way out was through death or reprogramming. If Mirage had been compromised, there was only one way Jazz would allow him to stay, and it was not as an agent. 

That wouldn't be so bad. Jazz’s disappointment would be worse.

Mirage sagged, almost dragging Jazz to the ground as the last desperate remnants of energy that had driven him across the blasted stretch of territory between 7-Alpha and Iacon Central Base disappeared. 

Jazz gripped Mirage’s chin to pull the other mech’s face upwards, and Mirage submitted without fuss, his eyes dim. 

Jazz could tell that Mirage was exhausted by more than just the physical exertion. There was an emotional component as well. 

Jazz ruthlessly suppressed any shred of guilt that tried to well up inside of him. He couldn’t feel guilt over what he commanded his mechs to do, otherwise he wouldn't be able to do his job. A job that was complicated by the delicate balance Jazz had to walk between Mirage his agent and Mirage his submissive. 

In the past Mirage had come back from missions damaged a thousand different ways, but this time was different. Instead of Jazz losing Mirage to death, he might have lost Mirage to reprogramming. And that realization made Jazz furious.

Mirage was his.

Jazz settled the exhausted mech down on the floor, resting Mirage’s head on his lap. Mirage felt Jazz’s hand on the back of his head as his cranial port slid open. With a sigh of relief, Mirage bowed his head forwards as, across a one way connection, Jazz used his overrides to dismantle his firewalls and force him into stasis. 

Mirage’s body went limp.

Jazz commed Blaster, layering the signal with priority glyphs and high-level encryptions. :Mech, I need a secure connection to the 7-Alpha base, specifically to Hound, and I need it now,: Jazz snapped out uncharacteristically as soon as the communications specialist answered the ping. 

This was Jazz on a mission.

Despite Blaster’s considerable talents, it still took several minutes before the line connected and Jazz received Hound’s frantic greeting. 

:Jazz! Mirage is —:

:Here,: Jazz interrupted. Not that he wasn’t glad to hear that Hound was still alive, but they didn’t have time to spend on small talk. :What’s your situation?: 

With the problem of his missing partner solved, at least for now, Hound moved on to give his commander a quick overview of the situation. :Still untangling exactly what happened and debriefing those involved. Bottom line, Mirage is compromised. I’m unsure how thoroughly, given he returned back to you.: That would be Jazz’s job to figure out. :I have two programmed slaves in custody. Their master got away.: 

Jazz’s hand tightened into a fist. :Who was the master?: Jazz growled. They had hurt what was his. They would pay.

Hound transmitted the relevant information. 

:Do you have proof?: Jazz demanded. Proof would keep Optimus and Prowl off his back when he did what he needed to do. 

:The sick fucker kept records,: Hound replied flatly, forwarding a few choice camera stills. :The bulk of the files will need to be decoded back at base, but I cracked a few. That was enough.:

Jazz snarled with a feral edge. Deep down he wanted to go hunting immediately. He wanted to find the mech and rend their plating from their body one slow strip at a time. 

But he had responsibilities. 

Jazz pinged Prowl and Optimus with an overview of what had happened so far, not even caring what time it was or if they were on duty or not. Jazz felt a shred of satisfaction when Prowl immediately issued an arrest warrant. 

Unfortunately, it wasn’t a kill order. 

At least, not yet. 

Jazz was confident that once Prowl had the proof that was hidden in the encrypted files, he would upgrade the arrest warrant to a kill on sight order. 

:Bring back all of his equipment, leave no trace. I want no chance of this leaking out,: Jazz ordered, his voice uncompromising. :Bring the two victims with you and we’ll take care of them.: 

Two new members for SpecOps. This was not how Jazz liked to do his recruiting. He could be a stone cold bastard when needed, but he preferred mechs who were already inclined towards the profession.

...and Hound was hesitating. Jazz could tell. :What is it?: he barked, his patience worn thin by his seething anger. 

:One of the victims, he’s part of a gestalt and one of his brothers was here looking for him. The brother is insisting on talking to him,: Hound explained. 

Jazz didn’t even have to think about it. It was basic common sense: you didn’t break up a gestalt. :Bring him. Same security precautions as the victims. And send me their designations.: Jazz knew that Ambulon would be one, of course. He had been the original slave that they had been told about. But Hound had said there were two. 

Hound sent the information over quickly, and Jazz paused, startled. He then relayed the information to Prowl. The tactician would have to handle the logistical details that Jazz was currently too angry to think about. 

The logistical details that normally would have been handled by Mirage, if Mirage had not been compromised.

:See you back soon. Jazz out.: Jazz signed off abruptly. Hound had things under control at 7-Alpha, and Jazz had his responsibilities here. 

Speaking of... Jazz looked down at the mech on his lap. 

Jazz allowed himself a few minutes to just sit there and stroke Mirage’s helm soothingly, calming himself down. His reverie was only broken by the occasional ping as Jazz was asked to approve resource requests that Prowl sent him as the mech rearranged SpecOp’s current deployments. 

...and a pointed reminder from Ratchet. Prowl had apparently told the medic about Mirage. Ratchet was waiting to start the evaluation that was required before Mirage’s clearance could be reinstated. 

Ratchet could just come down here and get Mirage, Jazz reminded the medic. It would be easier for the larger medic to carry Mirage instead of Jazz. Not that Jazz couldn’t carry Mirage, but Ratchet would have an easier time of it.

Ratchet arrived before long and carried Mirage to the interrogation room. It was the same room where Barricade had been broken, and before him, Umbra. This time, it was Mirage strapped down to the table. The restraints had been designed to be strong enough to hold a triplechanger, and challenging enough to hold even the escape artists of Autobot Special Operations. 

Despite having been woken up in the middle of his recharge cycle, Ratchet’s touch was gentle but firm as he wordlessly scanned Mirage and inserted an energon drip into the dangerously depleted mech’s primary line. 

Jazz stood on the other side of the table as Ratchet worked. Mirage needed to be physically stabilized before his programming was checked, otherwise they risked losing him entirely. But it was a fine line. For a potentially hostile debriefing, the weaker Mirage was, the less he would be able to fight back. 

Not that Ratchet was happy with the fact. 

Normally Jazz would have used a different medic, but Ratchet had the most knowledge and familiarity with Mirage’s particular programming..

Jazz watched closely as Ratchet connected to Mirage’s cranial port using a specialized data pad. Using detection software designed and endlessly refined by a dozen different specialists, Ratchet combed through Mirage’s coding, comparing Mirage’s pre-mission baseline to his current state. 

This particular data pad had also been programmed to look for the tell-tale markers of Mirage’s variant of slave coding. 

Ratchet inspected the data that scrolled swiftly down the pad’s screen as the programming chewed through any remaining shielding Mirage had left, laying Mirage’s innermost workings before Ratchet. 

Jazz snuck around the table so that he could eavesdrop shamelessly. Ratchet tactfully didn’t complain. Instead, he tilted the screen so that Jazz could see the results. 

No hostile code jackers were exposed by the pad’s scanner, and no active exploits tried to take advantage of the connection. Mirage was clean enough for the next step. 

Ratchet disconnected the data pad and connected to Mirage directly using a one-way connection. With specialized medical buffer programs and emergency medical firewalls on high, Ratchet descended into Mirage’s core coding, deeper than memory and deeper than emotion. 

Most mechs never thought much about their underlying coding, and rarely ran into a situation where a medic needed to check it. But then, most mechs weren’t Special Operations. They lived in the shadows, among deception and double-dealing. (And anybody who thought that was confined to just the Decepticon faction was delusional.) 

Mirage’s defenses stayed down in front of Ratchet’s probe. His firewalls, honeypots, and all the other little tricks he had in place to catch unwary interrogators who thought that breaking a pretty noble would be easy, lay dormant. 

Ratchet’s posture straightened as his inspection ended and he started withdrawing from Mirage’s core. 

Jazz waited for the medic to catch his mental balance. 

“He’s clear,” Ratchet concluded. “There are signs of stress on his firewalls. Something obviously tried to get in, but there is no sign that it was successful. Rest, energon, and his self-healing will take care of the rest.”

All in all, Mirage had arrived back at the base in relatively good condition. The damage was mostly superficial scrapes and the strain of travelling across the sprawling expanse that separated Iacon Central from the 7-Alpha base. 

“I want him back in a week for a recheck,” Ratchet said gruffly, disengaging from Mirage’s port gently.

Mirage booted up slowly, recognizing the familiar atmosphere of the interrogation room, as well as Jazz and Ratchet’s EM fields. He also felt the aftermath of a medical grade security scan. While nothing was out of place, it still felt like his mind had been combed through by sparkless, mechanical fingers. 

Mirage also remembered what had happened before Jazz had knocked him offline. 

While Ratchet had cleared Mirage, SpecOps agents required a higher level of scrutiny. The next level of evaluation needed to be performed by a SpecOps code specialist, or Jazz. And when it came to Mirage, Jazz had been over his code forwards and backwards more intimately than even Ratchet. 

Jazz slipped his connector into Mirage’s port in one smooth movement. 

Jazz’s probe struck quickly and dove deep, revealing Mirage’s code-deep submission metaphorically laid out in front of him. It was a tangle of old, habitual pathways, which were a legacy of the programming Mirage had been infected with in the past, as well as spark-driven influences that were purely Mirage. 

This level of intimate access was deeper than any medic would go without cause — at least as long as their morality programming was still intact. Here, Jazz held the core of Mirage’s loyalty in his hands, and found it unchanged. 

Finding nothing, Jazz broadened his search for other code-related attacks: trojan programming, cerebro hijacking, viruses, telepathy, and more. Each check came up clean. 

Finally satisfied, Jazz inserted a second cable so that he could establish a two-way connection, rather than the one-way used for his interrogation. :Your report?: he asked, once Mirage’s presence bloomed to life on the edge of his mind. 

Mirage hesitated, then sent Jazz a large data packet.

Jazz blinked as he started unpacking the contents of the file. Instead of a prepared report it was full of Mirage’s raw, uncensored, unsummarized experiences. Not entirely unexpected or unusual, given the disordered state that Mirage had come back in, but it would take Jazz time to parse the data before passing it off to Prowl.

More importantly, it meant that Mirage was literally hiding nothing from Jazz. 

Reassured, Jazz disconnected from Mirage, then nodded to Ratchet. Mirage was safe. (At least as safe as the former assassin could ever be.)

Ratchet released the restraints. However, Mirage made a wordless objection as Ratchet’s hands went to the stasis cuffs on his wrists. Mirage hadn’t moved, but both mechs could clearly tell that he had suppressed a flinch. 

Ratchet immediately stilled, looking up at Jazz for guidance.

Jazz’s attention was on Mirage. “You don’t need to keep them on,” Jazz explained gently, assuming that Mirage was still shaky from the scans as well as whatever had happened at the end of his mission.

Mirage tried to shake his head. “Failed,” he said, his broken voice barely louder than a whimper. 

“You didn’t fail,” Ratchet spoke up quickly in Mirage’s defense, but Jazz could tell that Ratchet’s words hadn’t reassured Mirage. 

“Ratchet is correct. You haven’t failed,” Jazz said to Mirage with a carefully even tone. Even so, Mirage cringed at Jazz’s words as if it had been a stern rebuke. 

They both understood that Mirage had not lived up to the high expectations Jazz had for his agents. He’d left his mission unfinished and his partner to pick up the pieces. Granted, he had been under extraordinary distress, but standard post-mission procedure meant that Mirage would be scheduled for additional training before being sent out again.

Instead, Mirage was acting like...

Ratchet pinged Jazz, wondering if he should leave now, but Jazz shook his head. Mirage’s reaction was likely caused by his likely encounter with slave programming. That meant that Ratchet would need to be briefed anyway, not just because he was Mirage’s doctor, but because he would be working with the victims coming in with Hound.

It would also help to have another dominant here just in case Jazz needed a witness. 

Mirage didn’t speak. 

Jazz waited, letting the silence build heavily. He knew Mirage would speak. Eventually. 

“I got caught,” Mirage finally confessed, his voice raw with guilt. 

It wasn’t unusual for SpecOps agents to be caught at one time or another. The missions they went out on were dangerous for a reason. So, it took Jazz a long moment to realize what Mirage was implying. 

Mirage had gotten caught on purpose. 

“You laid a trap and you were the bait,” Jazz stated flatly. 

It was an accepted, if dangerous technique that both of them had used several times in the past. However, this time, with the added complication of slave coding... 

Mirage knew that Jazz — as Mirage’s commander — hadn’t explicitly ordered Mirage not to play bait, but Mirage also knew that Jazz — as Mirage’s master — wouldn’t be happy if Mirage got himself re-infected. 

Through long experience, Jazz pushed down his possessive feelings. He needed to be professional. He’d deal with the fear of losing Mirage that was buried underneath his possessiveness later. 

Jazz caught Mirage’s hesitant glance, and he knew that Mirage knew what he was thinking. Jazz huffed. Mirage understood him too well. “We’ll address that later,” he said curtly. At least there would be a later. He needed to remember that. “For now, give me the basics.” 

“I got caught,” Mirage said. “He tried to upload something into my cortex, and... I don’t really remember what happened afterwards. By the time I became aware of what I was doing again, I was already halfway to Iacon, so I continued.” 

“Who is the master?” Jazz pushed. Hound had already told him, but Mirage’s independent confirmation would be good.

“Pharma.”

Ratchet startled, looking up at Jazz in shock.

Jazz held out his hand for Ratchet’s silence. He could tell that Ratchet wanted to say something, but this was not the time or the place. 

After Hound had told Jazz the name of the master, Jazz had looked up Pharma’s file, including his known associates. Ratchet’s name had come up. Jazz knew Ratchet well enough that he didn’t suspect that the medic was involved in any way, but that didn’t mean that there wasn’t a connection there that would need to be managed.

“Is there anything else I need to know right now?” Jazz asked Mirage instead. 

“Ambulon wasn’t the only slave. There was a second one. First Aid.” 

That also lined up with what Hound had told Jazz. 

Ratchet, however, was hearing it for the first time. Jazz could feel Ratchet reining in his prodigious temper. 

“I woke up and Pharma was bragging. He clearly loved the sound of his own voice. Apparently Ambulon was his favorite, while First Aid was a disappointment. He called First Aid a ‘poor copy’ of Ambulon. I was supposed to be his next attempt’” Mirage said, his voice rushing uncharacteristically as he continued to describe what he could remember about Ambulon, First Aid, and their master. The details were all in the data packet he had sent to Jazz, but in his state of shock he wasn’t able to focus. 

Still standing across the medical berth from Jazz, Ratchet looked emotionally wrecked. Fury was likely the only thing keeping him on his feet, and his medical protocols were the only thing keeping his furious field from swamping his patient. 

Now Jazz was even more curious to learn how Ratchet was connected to Pharma. 

Mirage’s voice eventually dwindled into a whisper and died out. He closed his eyes. He had tried to give his master as much information as he would need to handle Ambulon and First Aid. Mirage doubted he would be able to — or allowed to — help this time around.

Mirage opened his eyes as Jazz cradled the side of his head in his hand. “Did they get him?” Mirage asked, hopefully.

Jazz didn’t need to ask who Mirage was referring to. He shook his head. 

Mirage keened in disappointment. Not only had he left the mission unfinished, leaving Hound behind alone to complete it, but they had failed to get the target. Mirage swore to himself that, if he ever came across Pharma again, the wayward ‘medic’ would quickly discover that Mirage still remembered his former skillset. 

“Ambulon and First Aid?” Ratchet asked, horsely. 

Jazz didn’t look up at Ratchet, keeping his attention on Mirage. “On their way here with Hound. Along with one of First Aid’s gestalt mates.” 

“Gestalt,” Ratchet rumbled disbelievingly, his attention flickering almost imperceptibly as he cross referenced files. 

Jazz’s field grim. Not only had they discovered that the monster they were looking for, the mech who had preyed on other mechs, was a fellow Autobot, the Autobots had almost lost a gestalt, either through reprogrammed loyalty, or from losing one of its members. The second was bad enough, but the first would have given Pharma a powerful weapon.

They didn’t even know what Pharma’s long term plans were. 

“I’ll prepare the medbay,” Ratchet replied automatically. 

Jazz didn’t say anything. Ratchet’s medbay was perfectly ready for any disaster, but the medic had the look of a mech who was using routine to hold strong emotions at bay. Instead, Jazz pinged security with an update.

Mirage felt the change as his clearance was reinstated. His connection to the base’s systems were restored, his security access was reinitialized, and new security codes sent to him. 

“We need to go now,” Jazz announced abruptly. After all, there was much that needed to get done before Hound arrived. His hands moved to the stasis cuffs that Mirage was still wearing. 

Mirage flinched under Jazz’s hands.

Jazz stopped, but didn’t remove his hands. “You’re gonna have to tell me what you’re thinking, Mirage,” he said clearly. 

Mirage’s mouth opened, then shut without a sound. He stared up at Jazz imploring the other mech to just understand what he needed without him needing to make it real by describing it. 

This wasn’t a situation where Jazz could rely on his gut and make changes on the fly. “You’re gonna have to use your words,” Jazz repeated. 

“I need...” Mirage started to say, before trailing off. His mouth moved as he struggled to make the words come. 

Jazz waited patiently, aware that Ratchet had also stopped to watch. Mirage’s field whipped around them, unrestrained. It was unlike the normally disciplined mech.

“I don’t trust myself,” Mirage admitted, ashamed. He couldn’t look at his master. “I feel... disconnected. Lost.” The thought was like a deep pit in the back of Mirage’s mind. The thought of being unwanted, unworthy, unclean. “I need connection. Belonging. Discipline,” Mirage whispered the last. 

Mirage didn’t think that he explained it very well, but how else was he going to explain the discordant feelings that scratched at his very spark? 

Jazz nodded. He had just been inside of Mirage’s mind, so he had a very good idea of Mirage’s mental state. But he still needed Mirage to ask for it. Jazz needed Ratchet to witness and understand as well, for their sake and the sake of the larger group.

“What are you asking me for?” Jazz asked again, leaning forward to grip Mirage’s chin firmly, forcing his submissive to look him squarely in the face. “Should I whip you for your failure? Peel this pretty plating from your struts and make you bleed?” His voice was sharp-edged seduction wrapped in velvet steel.

Mirage trembled as Jazz’s hand slid down his side. While he would go through anything that his master asked him to, what Jazz was describing would not be play, it would be torture.

“Part of me wants that,” Mirage admitted in a horse, pleading whisper. “Make me regret ever having left your side.”

“Would that soothe your conscience?” Jazz asked. He knew that Mirage would let him do it, but that it wouldn’t actually help Mirage. Jazz needed to build Mirage back up, not to break his mind into tiny pieces. Because this time, Mirage might not come back. 

Mirage shook his head. 

“You want to be mine,” Jazz crooned, his hand tightening on Mirage’s chin.

Mirage nodded helplessly. “I want to be yours,” Mirage declared. 

“You are mine,” Jazz said simply, his voice hard and uncompromising. It was a fact that both of them knew, though Mirage apparently needed to be reminded. 

Mirage’s next words came out as a sob. 

“I need to be yours. Like I was. In the beginning,” he stuttered out. “Possess me, order me, control me. Keep me by your side.”

That was what Jazz had been waiting for. 

“Cherished one,” Jazz crooned, his hand leaving Mirage’s face to caress Mirage’s chest, just above his spark. 

Mirage’s field, the wild knot of entangled emotions that whipped around him, smoothed slightly. 

It was a start.

“Pharma will pay for this,” Jazz stated with the dark voice of an executioner reading out the sentence of the condemned. 

Mirage’s need to belong, his need to be controlled, just like he had been in the beginning, all of that pointed towards one conclusion for Jazz. 

“He’s taken your confidence,” Jazz summed up. He ran his hand lightly, soothingly down Mirage’s body. “He might not have taken your mind. He might not have taken your body. But he has still tried to take you away from me.” 

Mirage shook as he realized the deeper truth of what Jazz had just said. “I’ll be fine,” Mirage protested, half sitting up and grasping at Jazz’s arm with bound hands. His fingers, weakened by the cuff’s strong stasis field, skittered along Jazz’s armor. “I can still...” There was paperwork to fill out, reports to file, schedules to maintain... the thousand and one tiny things he did to keep the division operating smoothly.

“This is also my fault,” Jazz said sadly, catching Mirage’s hands and pulling the other mech until he was sitting, leaning up against Jazz.

“No!” Mirage protested.

Jazz covered Mirage’s mouth with a gentle finger and shushed the anxious mech. “This mission crossed the boundaries between Mirage the SpecOps agent, and Mirage the slave. I did not take that into account before you left, and I did not make allowances for it when planning.”

Mirage shook as he rested his forehead against Jazz’s shoulder, but he knew what Jazz was saying was true. 

Jazz’s arms came up to cradle Mirage lightly against his chest. “Every agent has missions that go wrong and can’t be completed as planned. It’s normal. You know that an agent wouldn’t be disciplined for that, short of an outstandingly egregious fuck up. But you,” Jazz smoothed a hand over Mirage’s helm, gentling the confused mech caught up between his two personalities, “you went into this mission as an agent, but also as a slave, and you have always endeavored to serve your master perfectly. It must be incredibly painful for you to feel like you’ve failed.”

Mirage crumpled, keening his distress as Jazz cut to the heart of the problem. 

Ratchet moved forwards, preparing to administer a sedative to calm Mirage down, but Jazz waved him back. 

“You know that, as an agent, you didn’t do anything to deserve reprimand. But as my slave you feel compelled to atone for your failure.”

Mirage nodded urgently, his hands clinging to Jazz’s armor with desperate strength.

Jazz gently turned the other mech’s face so that they could look each other in the face. “I forgive you,” Jazz said with a terrible sincerity. 

Mirage broke down again, sobbing and burying his face in Jazz’s chest, overwhelmed with conflicting emotions. 

Jazz rode the emotional wave with Mirage as the mech fought to regain his center. He wanted to give Mirage all the time he needed to pull himself together, but an untimely ping from Prowl reminded Jazz that circumstances were moving faster than he’d like. 

Jazz reluctantly raised Mirage’s head to face him once again. “We have much to do, and not a lot of time to do it in,” Jazz announced, reaching for the stasis cuffs. It took a matter of moments for him to deactivate and remove them, stowing the cuffs in his subspace. 

Mirage visibly pulled himself together at the implicit reminder of his duty as second in command of Special Operations. 

Jazz smiled crookedly. “As for the reward I promised you. It will be handled later. In the meantime, we have two slave-programmed mechs that will need breaking, a lot of debriefing to get through, and a hunt to plan,” Jazz said with a sharp smile.

Mirage’s attention sharpened at Jazz’s last words as old programming stirred. A hunt meant the possibility of a kill. “They’ve decided what to do with Pharma?”

“Not yet,” Jazz’s smile twisted into something even more terrible to behold. 

Ratchet rolled his eyes, looking away from what was happening in front of him, despite the fact that both mechs could care less about having an audience. 

At least the mention of hunting, as well as his other duties, had started to bring Mirage out of his submissive funk. It wasn’t perfect, and Jazz knew he’d have a lot of work to do later, but it was a start.

“He’s good to leave now,” Ratchet broke into the conversation, reminding the two mechs that they were not alone. “He needs more energon, a wash, and some pampering, but otherwise he’ll be okay.”

Jazz nodded his understanding while helping an obedient Mirage off of the medberth. 

As Jazz escorted Mirage to the washracks so that he could help Mirage remove his temporary paint job (unfortunately, with no extracurricular activities involved this time), Jazz turned his attention to the current situation. He had a returning agent incoming, along with three mechs in custody, two who would need breaking. 

...and that was its own problem. Jazz barely had time for the two submissives he had. He didn’t have time to take on two more, not and still be able to do his job. Jazz needed a solution to that problem. 

In the meantime, Bluestreak could help Jazz with one of his other problems; pampering Mirage. Jazz might not have the time, but he suspected that, once offered the chance, Bluestreak would be very enthusiastic. 

Jazz sent out orders to his SpecOps support staff. They’d have the requisite holding cells ready by the time Hound arrived, along with what else was needed

Primus help them all (except Pharma).

**Author's Note:**

> Surprise!


End file.
